Straight Jacket Fashion
by Halawia
Summary: By the way, we last because we're colorful. And as for fools, just play the opposite
1. This body's left the soul

**I don't own Misfits or any of its stellar characters. I'm just playing in the playground. All settings and plotline are that of my own creative invention. **

**Much of this fic came about after a lot of curiosity about the singularity of each of the characters before community service began. There was a lot of background delving for Nathan during the show but never so much of the other characters and, seeing that I found a lot of my attention focused on Simon and wondering what it was that made him, him, and why he was the way we saw him, I wanted to give him a little more story. **

**In Season 2 we got to find out that Simon spent some time in a psychiatric unit where he meets Lucy, and I basically just took those two ideas and, some bits and pieces from the Simon Bellamy twitter, and ten months and a lot of lengthy writing later came up with this. I'm hoping that this fic gives his character the complexity he very much deserved in the show. **

**And I hope you enjoy, as well.**

**...**

Warm and metallic. The taste of something familiar and unknowing, and slightly _thrilling._

The blood that fills up his mouth as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek isn't comforting enough, but it's not too much a surprise. Hardly anything is enough these days. Still, he carries forward with heavy feet against the pavement and his head slung low against his chest so he doesn't have to look at them when he passes by.

Thinks to himself, _Don't see me. Don't see me._

It's only wishful thinking. If he's seen them, surely they've spotted him. Only someone invisible would be able to pass by without being noticed, and this is something he's not. He's as bare as he's always been around them, unable to crawl far enough inside himself to disappear.

Even through his ear buds, with the music blaring as loud as he could get it, he can hear their jeers and taunts.

"Simon!" someone yells. But not just any someone- Matt. The boy that used to be his friend. He's calling Simon's name. It's been so long since he's heard him say it that he automatically jerks to a stop. Turning around is a mistake, and yet he knows he'll do it- can't stop himself. How long's it been since someone _looked _at him?

Taking a deep breath, he turns around, pulling the buds from his ears. He has to force himself to look up at them, all five of them. _Show no emotion. Give them nothing_. He's learned as much by now.

He glances back to the ground. "What?"

"What are you listening to?" Matt asks.

He blinks rapidly and peeks up at him. _A trap_, the voice in the back of his head whispers. Whatever he says will be giving them ammo, another one of those things that could be used against him. But even so, like a pet starved of attention, he craves the contact and words, fills up with the bubbling urge to answer. Like any of them care. So he opens his mouth and gets ready to tell him, but one of the boys beside Matt- a rough looking kid with a cap too big for his head and a straggle tooth- says something first.

"Probably some emo shit he'll end up killing himself to someday."

He flinches. That one hurt, cuts deep like an invisible weapon made of words. They always know just what to say to make it hurt the most. Worse than that, is the grin that Matt cracks.

"Is it true?" one of the boys asks.

"N-no," he mumbles.

Matt looks at his mates beside him. "He's lying. One time, he took a bunch of his mom's sleeping pills, but he was so scared he threw them back up."

His head snaps up, his eyes widening with surprise. "W-what?" He must have heard that wrong. Had to have mistaken Matt's words. Surely, no matter how cruel he's been in the past, he wouldn't go so far as to tell them something that personal.

But he has.

He even smiles about it. "Go on, Simon. Share with the group." He looks at his mates. "Simon here called me in the middle of the night, crying his eyes out after he'd sicked all over himself. Wanted me to come over and help."

One of the boys laughs. "Did you?"

Matt shrugs. "Well, I didn't want to. But he just kept begging me over and over. It was so sad."

"Why are you doing this?" Simon asks, his voice cracking.

"Look at your face!" He glances around at his friends again, laughing. "Are you going to cry, Simon?"

He swallows hard and shakes his head, gnawing at the raw skin on in the inside of his mouth, drawing out more blood. He won't say anything else, won't give them anything else.

"He's so pathetic he couldn't even off himself properly," the straggle tooth kid jeers at him.

He can't take anymore. The tears are threatening to fall and he's having trouble breathing, he needs to get out of here. He turns around, spits the blood from his mouth and goes to walk away when two heavy hands catch him in the center of his back, giving him a hard shoving and sending him reeling forward.

He throws his arms out to catch himself as the pavement comes towards his face, and his palms scrape against it, tearing the skin open. His knees slam into the ground and a small groan escapes him. He does nothing. Doesn't say a word, doesn't retaliate- never retaliates. That would only make it worse. So he picks himself up and starts to walk again, the sound of Matt and his friends laughter at his back.

Only when he's gotten home and unclenched his fingers that have been pressed against his throbbing palm so he can assess the damage and see all the bits of blood and skin torn off his hand, does he allow himself a small moment to break down. His house is empty, and he's grateful for this as the tears fall large and quickly down his cheeks. He doesn't want anyone to see this.

He scrubs at his wounds with antiseptic and revels in the burn it leaves behind until the tears finally go away and the only sound left after is that of his heavy breathing in the quiet of the flat.

...

He's all alone here. Nothing he isn't accustomed to, really.

His parents are gone for the night- out to some restaurant, and his sister is at a friends. He's home by himself, shut inside his room, face- to- face with his computer screen, and he's lonely. It sinks deep down inside him and settles in his gut like a weight, making his stomach churn. His mind, continuing to take him back to earlier. All the things Matt had said, all the laughter, the sting on his palms still there as a reminder of what had happened.

Simon can't get it out of his head, and not even editing videos is making him feel better tonight. With a hard sigh he stands from the computer desk and shuffles across the room. He undresses slowly and then takes a moment to stare down at his half- naked, pale body. Words from the past when he had to take gym class spring up to haunt him. Pasty face, sunburn Simon, they were just a few that got thrown in his direction when people would tease him. Not the worst of what he's been called, but a start to it all. Something that sticks all these years later.

Matt stood up for him, then, he recalls sadly. Until he started branching out from his one on one relationship with Simon and making new friends... becoming popular, and then he had turned into everyone else. Just another person finding ways to make him hate himself even more than he already did.

There's a lump in his throat as he gets ready to climb into bed, but his phone buzzing in his trouser pocket on the floor locks his feet to the ground as he startles. With a curious pinch of his eyebrows, he bends down to retrieve it- thinks it's more than likely his parents, anyway, messaging to let him know they'll be gone a while longer.

The last person he expects it to be as he opens his messages, is Matt texting him with an invite to the club.

He has to check it twice, three times, to make sure he's read it correctly, his heart slamming in his chest at the realization that- it's true- Matt has asked him to come hang out.

For a moment, all he can do is stand there, staring down at his phone, blinking rapidly. Finally his body catches up with the buzzing of his brain and he hurriedly throws his clothing back on. Matt's asked him to come out, and that's all he can focus on. His hands tremble with nervous anticipation as he throws his coat on, with questions in his head of why Matt may have invited him. Perhaps he wants to apologize? He likes the thought, it makes him feel better.

Walking out the door of his flat, he ignores the voice in his head telling him that it's probably a trap- just another one of those bad ideas he always falls for.

...

At the club, with the music and people and voices so very loud around him, he ducks down, almost trying to curl inward on himself as he weaves through the groups of people with the drinks in his hand- nearly running into a girl who quickly yells at him to move out of her way. He finally manages to make his way through to the back where there are groups of people are sitting around- including Matt and some of his other mate's. Matt has one arm wrapped around a pretty girl beside him as he talks to another in front of him.

Simon stands there awkwardly, staring at them for a moment, with everything he wants to say caught at the back of his throat. Until, with a quick swipe of his tongue against his lips, he manages to force himself to say hi.

Matt's eyes quickly find his, widening a little in surprise. "Simon."

"I bought you a beer," he tells him, holding it out, to which Matt frowns slightly and holds up a drink already in his hand.

Simon takes a nervous look around and swallows heavily. This isn't going well. "I got your text."

"What text?" Matt replies, seeming a little annoyed by that point.

"Y- you sent me a text, telling me to meet you here."

"I was texting my mates. I meant a different Simon."

The embarrassment of the words and the situation at hand cut right into him, his eyes widening as the back of his neck and palms flush with a burning heat. This is humiliating. Everyone- Matt included, seems to glance down in embarrassment. He needs to get out of here, needs to go home and try to pretend this never happened. The air feels suffocating as he sets the bottles down and hurries to turn around and rush away.

His chest hurts. He doesn't even make it outside the club before the tears are stinging his eyes and blurring his vision and he hates himself for this. Hates how weak and pathetic crying makes him feel. He swipes angrily at his face to wipe them away, knocking into people as he stumbles past them outside.

Each breath he takes sends a jabbing pain through his chest and stomach. He can't breathe, struggling to get air into his lungs. People are staring at him. All he wants is to fade away from this moment.

The walk home is brutal. He can't stop replaying in his head the things that happened inside the club. By the time he reaches his flat, he's so angry he can hardly see straight. It doesn't help that the house is still quiet with no one home yet. It makes him feel even worse.

Jaw clenched tight, he shrugs out of his jacket and moves quickly to the fridge, throwing it open. He counts out each beer at the back. There are twelve. He tells himself he's only going to have a couple- leave the rest for his dad, but once he's started, he can't seem to stop. The first beer makes his stomach feel warm, the third sending tingles through his legs. The fifth beer makes his head and body feel light and floating and before he knows it, they're all gone, and he's very drunk.

Alone and drunk. He couldn't feel any more pathetic if he tried. And he knows it, knows it so well, this pathetic loneliness.

If Matt had just...

Simon digs his fingers on the underside of the table, his upper lip curling with disdain on it's own accord.

"Matt the asshole," he slurs to himself. Matt, this terrible, awful person who used to be his friend. Who traded him in without second thought and tossed him to the wolves every chance he got. Simon hates him so much, just then. Hates him more than he's ever hated another human in his life, never thinking it were possible to feel such a way. He wants to hurt him back, make him feel all the pain that he's made him feel.

_What's the worse thing that could ever happen to you_, he'd asked Matt once.

_Probably if I didn't have the things I like_, Matt had told him. _Like if we had a house fire and I lost all my things, that would suck. That would be the worst._

That's it, he tells himself. That's the answer.

He stands from the kitchen table, wobbling his way on unsteady feet as he moves to the storage pantry under the sink. There, he finds the lighter fluid, and his breathing quickens. He's going to do this, he has to. After grabbing some tissues and finding a box of matches from his parents bedroom, the first thing he does is check to make sure no one is home. Matt's the only one he has a problem with and, besides, he doesn't want to get anyone killed.

As soon as he's sure no one is there, he drunkenly stumbles out the door of his flat and next door to Matt's, glancing over his shoulder every couple of seconds to make sure no one is around. His entire body is trembling as he reaches the door to Matt's flat, his belly warm with liquid encouragement but his head throbbing. His hands shake so hard as he's pouring the lighter fluid on the tissue that he drops the bottle, soaking the bottom of his pant legs as it hits the ground, and he silently prays he won't drop the match, too.

It takes him six separate tries to just to get one to strike and light, and when it does, he gets so caught up in staring at the way the orange and blue and purple dance together that it dies out burning against his fingers. He tells himself he'll give it one last try before he'll give up entirely, crawl home, and spend the rest of the night in front of his computer screen, wallowing in self pity. Maybe throw up. He's feeling rather sick.

The match lights, and for one moment- just one fleeting second- he questions whether or not he should go through with it. Until Matt's voice rings loudly inside his head, _I meant a different Simon. _

He knows better. Matt doesn't know any other Simon's.

He lied, and would keep lying, and keep hurting him.

With a new determination, he lights the tissues, pushes open the letter box, and drops them inside. And he watches, he wants to watch the whole place burn down in front of his eyes. The carpet catches almost immediately, the frayed edges going up in flames that lick together and spread outward. Smoke starts to billow out from the letter box, just then. He pulls back so it doesn't get in his eyes, and tells himself it's time to walk away before he gets caught. But something stops him- a noise- not just any noise, though, it's the distinct meowing of a cat.

His heart jumps, and he quickly bends down and peers through the letter box again, having to blow the smoke out of his eyes to get a better look. Sure enough, there's a cat inside the flat. On the one hand, he wants to run away from there as fast as his drunk legs will carry him, but on the other... the cat never did a thing to him. The cat didn't bully him at school or any of those things Matt did. He can't leave it there to die, it wouldn't be right.

Simon's now at a loss for what to do. He didn't bring any water over with him, he hadn't planned on putting a stop to what he was going to do. The flames jump closer to where the cat sits, curled into itself, meowing loudly. He doesn't have any water with him, but there are other means.

Taking another quick look around and finding that- thankfully- no one has noticed yet what he's been up to, he unzips his trousers and lowers them enough to pull himself out, press very closely to the already warming door, and piss through the letter box. The fire inside the houses hisses as it distinguishes, and he closes his eyes, tilting his head back in relief- it's all going to be okay.

"Just _what _in the hell are you doing?"

His eyes fly open and he looks over his shoulder to find Matt's mother, arms crossed, glaring at him. "I-"

"What are you..." Her eyes widen. "Is that lighter fluid and matches at your feet? What are you doing up against the door like that? Is that smoke!" Her voice only seems to get louder with every question she asks until she's practically screaming at him. "Simon Bellamy you better answer me right now, what are you doing at our house?"

He blinks rapidly, glances down at the ground, and answers with slurred speech, "Peeing."

"You're peeing? Are you peeing in my letter box, is that why you're up against the door like that? Oh my god it is, isn't it? You sick, pervert... that... that's it, I am calling the police. I'm calling them."

And he wants to tell her to wait, to just shut up for five minutes so he can just think straight and explain things to her- to maybe tell her about what happened tonight, _why _he felt the need to do this. But he doesn't, he can't, the words are too jumbled on his tongue and he's haphazardly trying to shove his cock back in his pants because the other neighbors are starting to come out of their houses and stare.

All the while Matt's mom is on her cell phone throwing a big fit, calling him all sorts of names, and just when he thinks things can't possibly get any worse... Matt walks up. Matt and his mates, with a few girls from the club with them, no doubt. He doesn't even get his pants zipped up before he vomits.

He's still throwing up when the police arrive ten minutes later, throw him in handcuffs, give him a bag to be sick in, and toss him in the back of the police car. Even through the pounding in his head, he can still hear Matt and his friends laughter, ringing in his ears as he's driven away.

...

Three months probation, seven weeks community service, a handful of people that haven't stopped calling him a pervert since the incident at Matt's house- Matt included, of course, and his parents are staring at him like he's murdered someone.

"I just don't understand it, Simon," his mother says, releasing a sigh. She's said this a lot since the night he got arrested. "What possessed you to think this was a good idea." She scrutinizes him with wide, unblinking eyes- eyes as blue as his own. His entire life has been one, 'you look so much like your mother,' comment after another. She stares at him, expecting answers, but he has nothing to say. All he can do is shrug.

"That's not a sufficient answer," his father tells him.

Simon looks up at him, at the way his upper lip is curled in irritation the way his own tends to get when he's extremely bothered by something and he mumbles a quick, "I'm sorry."

His mother leans close, she likes to do that when she's trying to _really _get through to him. He can't seem to help but flinch back. Her eyebrows come together in concern. "I thought you were friends with Matt," she says.

The noise bursts out of him before he can stop it- a dark laugh. He laughs and laughs and laughs until he's sure they probably think he's crazy, but he can't help it. The sound escapes him until he's close to tears- hysterics, maybe? "My- my friend? He's not my friend."

"But-"

"Have you listened to anything I've said in the past year?" he asks, the anger lilting in his tone. Of course they haven't been listening, if they had, they'd have heard all the times he's said to them, _help me. _Help him make the words stop, the looks stop. To help him make the teasing's go away once and for all, to set things right. But _no one_ listened.

He wonders if he even said anything at all, or maybe he just imagined it all in his head- the way someone crazy might. Mentally unstable- they tossed that word around a lot when he was being handed his sentence. _I'm not crazy_, he'd wanted to say... but nothing came out. The way he won't let it all come out now. Everyone had the chance to do something and no one did. Why would he look to them for anything now? No, he'll go back to his silence- the unspoken words.

"We're just trying to understand this," his father tells him. "We just want to help."

"Yes, talk to us," his mother pleads.

"It's nothing," he tells them. "Everything's fine. I'll do better from now on."

The lie sounds so convincing rolling off his tongue, he nearly believes himself.

...

They corner him walking home, Matt and five of his mates. Two blocks away from his flat and all five of them come running up to him without showing an inkling of intending to stop. His first instinct is to shrink away, but there's nowhere to shrink to. His back hits the shrubs along the sidewalk and his hands instinctively fly up to cover his face- which leaves his stomach wide open for them to pummel into with their fists. The first blow sends him to his knees, the air leaving him in a heavy gust.

One of them spits on the back of his head.

Another kicks his back, sprawling him out on his stomach.

His hands don't leave his face or head, however. He makes sure to keep that covered in the off chance one of them decides to pick up a brick. On the ground, throbbing gut pressed tight against the sidewalk while four boys kick and punch and swear at him, he opens his eyes and peeks through his fingers to see a pair of shoes standing a distance back- Matt's shoes.

Matt isn't partaking in this.

"Get up, you pussy!" one of the boy's yells, grabbing the collar of his shirt and yanking him up. He stumbles, tripping over his own feet and knocking into another boy who hits him in his lower back.

"Are you going to cry?" one of them asks.

He clenches his jaw and tightens his fingers into his palm, shaking his head. No, he won't give them that ever again. They'll beat him to death before he'll give them that power. He's prepared for it, too- the idea that one of these boys could take this far enough to end his life. They continue to hit him until Matt tells them to stop.

One of the boys gets behind him and pushes their hands through his arms, pulling hard enough to make him uncover his head and force his arms behind his back. He ducks his head down, watching as Matt's footsteps come closer until he's right in front of him.

"Do you know how long I had to wait for this opportunity to present itself?" Matt asks. "What is this with you never leaving your flat? Is this what you were afraid of?"

He says nothing.

"Hit him again," Matt commands one of them, and one does, right in his mouth. The taste of the blood on his tongue and against his teeth makes his stomach twist. "I've wanted to beat your ass since the night you tried setting my house on fire, and look at that, I got the opportunity."

Except Matt hasn't touched him, he's let all his friends do it for him. Simon wonders why that is, wonders as he looks up, why it is that Matt isn't even looking at him. This is the wrong time for those kind of thoughts and questions, he knows, but he can't seem to help it.

"Do you have anything to say?" Matt asks, and when he shakes his head again, he gives his friends the go- ahead to- in his words- hit him until he decides to talk. So they hit him a lot, because he won't give them a single sound. Eventually, when he's struggling to breathe after one of them gripped him up in a choke hold so the other could slam their knee into his face, Matt finally calls them off. "Just let him go," he says and, it's stupid, but Simon almost wants to _thank _him.

He struggles to his feet, wheezing, hardly able to see, and starts to stumble away. He doesn't make it very far when something hard hits him in the back of the head, followed by something else biting into his shoulder. Another thing flies past his head and clicks against the sidewalk. It takes him a moment to realize it's rocks they're throwing at him. He's trying to get away and they're laughing and pelting him with stones. He has to start zig- zagging just to avoid being hit, which is hard enough considering he's hurting everywhere and can't see very well.

He thinks it can't get any worse than this- nothing could be worse than the physical pain they've just inflicted on him- until one of the boys calls out, "It's a shame you didn't succeed in killing yourself the first time. Better use a rope next time around," that gets to him the hardest. The words sink into his chest like rusty blades, digging and opening at a wound that's been there for as long as he can remember- never healing- and rips it wide open until he cries out.

He clutches at himself through his shirt, stumbling and tripping on his own feet until he slams into the door of his own flat and shoves his way inside. He doesn't even close it behind him, doesn't check to see if anyone might be home.

Hand gripping at the railing for support, he drags himself up the stairs one step at a time. It hurts to move, to breath, to even exist, just then.

All he wants is to make it stop.

...

The chair beneath his feet wobbles unsteadily against the carpet under his weight, making his heart leap. He takes an aching breath, holds it inside his lungs until it burns, and slowly lets it out as he slips the rope around his neck. His fingers tremble against the rough material. His shaking hands pulls it tightly against his throat, so tight that it hurts. He grabs at it above his head and gives it one good yank to make sure it's secure enough around the beam he's tied it to before letting go. The chair jerks and he lets out a gasp, quickly working to regain his footing.

_Not yet._

Inhaling against the restraining material of the rope, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his iPod, slipping the ear buds into his ears before turning the volume all the way up. He needs the distraction from what he's about to do. When he hits play, and the music erupts against his eardrums, he tells himself that this is it.

There won't be anymore pain or suffering, no more sadness that lingers through the long days and follows him well into the night, turning into the thing he fears in his nightmares. Nothing will hurt after this.

He takes a constricted breath.

_This is the only way to make it stop._

Lets all the air out.

_It'll all be over soon._

He imagines what might be said after he's gone, how people might react- how _Matt _might react. He wants this to haunt him, but knows it probably won't. Who will be there to miss him when he's gone? Tears catch at the corner of his eyes and he blinks them away hard, licking his beaten and bruised lips as he tells himself one more time that he has to do this.

Still, right before his heavy feet can kick the chair out from under him, her face springs up in his mind. Rebecca- his sister. She'll be home from school soon. He wonders how he could have forgotten this. He'd made sure his parents were gone and his suicide note written, but he forgot Rebecca. She would get home before his parents did.

She'll be the one to find him.

The guilt strikes deep in his gut at the thought. He can't do this to her, she wouldn't be able to handle it, it'd destroy her. And she doesn't deserve that. Becca's a good sister, kind and caring, everything that no one else has been to him in a long time.

With a dejected sigh, he reaches up and goes to remove the rope, but before he can do so, the chair jerks beneath his feet once more, this time tipping out from under him, sending him dropping as the chair hits the floor.

Luck would have been his neck snapping with the impact of his fall, but that doesn't happen. Instead, the rope tightens hard around his throat, cutting off his air supply. He chokes on breaths he can't take and silently- trapped only in his head- hopes that the end will come quickly.

The seconds feel like hours as things start to grow fuzzy.

That would be how Becca finds him, arms hanging at his sides, feet dangling above the ground. The first thing she does is scream, the sound so loud he can hear it above the music still blaring from his ipod.

"Simon? Simon!" she shrieks, rushing forward to grab his legs in attempt to hoist him up. She gets him up just high enough that the rope loosens and he manages to take a breath, but his weight becomes to much for her to hold and her arms slip away, causing him to fall again. The rope pulls tighter than before, and he curses himself for being so good at the knot tying course he took in cub scouts one year.

"What do I do?" Rebecca cries, looking around the room wildly and back at him. "I... I'll go get Matt!"

_No! _The word sounds so loud in his head, but it's no use as they're not leaving his mouth. Oh, God, he just wants to breathe.

"Wait, no, that'll take too long. What do I _do_, Simon?"

He glances down at the chair beneath his feet, eyes starting to cross as he tries to convey the message to her with them. All she needs to do is pick the chair up and place it back under his feet, except she's too upset to think clearly. With each passing second his consciousness slips.

"I'm calling an ambulance," she cries.

It'll be too late for that.

_The chair. _

Everything's starting to grow dark. The world is slipping away. He's leaving while the music plays on.

_I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through._

_I'm ashamed of the person I am._

_..._

**Song lyrics at the end are Joy Divisions Isolation**

**I'll be updating every Wednesday**

**Thanks for stopping by :)**


	2. Blame it on my ADD baby

**Still don't own Misfits. **

**Meet you at the bottom :)**

**...**

He wakes with a start, sitting up and gasping for air. There's a sheen layer of sweat across his brow, his clothing sticking to his skin, with his throat feeling so very raw. It hurts to swallow. His whole body is aching in ways he never imagined it could. It doesn't help that things are still hazy, his vision blurring every couple seconds. He blinks a couple times and reaches up, rubbing at his eyes before taking a look around the room, scanning his surroundings. The burning smell of antiseptic in the air makes his nose wrinkle.

A beeping sound draws his attention to the left, where he finds a heart monitor machine. His eyebrows come together as he glances down at the contraption on the tip of his finger. He takes another painful swallow as the realization sinks in- he's at the hospital.

Anxiety wraps around his insides as he struggles to pull in air and quickly yanks the device off his finger, which only causes it to blare a single flat line.

"Simon?"

He jumps and looks to his right to find his sister sitting in a chair near his bed. Her eyes are wide, there are tear stains on her cheeks.

"Simon?" she says again.

He can't look at her, can't face her like this. His eyes go to the bed sheets. "Hi," he croaks. "I didn't.. know you were here."

"I've been here most of the night."

"Dad and mum?"

Her mouth becomes a thin line. "Talking with the doctors. You were asleep for a long time. They were worried about you."

"Doubtful," he murmurs.

"What?"

He shakes his head. "What happened? How..."

"The chair on the floor," she says quietly. "I got a knife and climbed on the chair and cut you down. You knocked your head on the dresser." He reaches up to touch his head. "Don't!" Becca cries. "You... you had to get four stitches."

"I can't feel anything," he tells her, voice disjointed. It's not too much a surprise that he can't feel much beyond the pounding in his head and how badly his throat hurts. But maybe it's more than that? Maybe there's an emotional numbness to this, too.

"Maybe you should tell-"

"No," he cuts her off, with a small shake of his head. "No. I'll be all right."

"Y- your iPod broke. You fell on it. Mum said something about getting you a new one."

He feels a pang in his chest at this news. His music has always been a life line. It hurts hearing that he's lost that. The edges of his eyes wet and he has to put all his focus and energy into not breaking down- he doesn't want Becca to see that. Even so, he's always had a well enough relationship with her that she's in tune to whatever is bothering him. She knows there's something wrong, aside from just the obvious.

She stands from the chair and moves slowly, almost tentatively, over to the bed. Taking a seat on the very end, she asks, "How are you feeling?"

How _is _he feeling? Sick, hurt, in pain, embarrassed, _angry_.

"Fine."

That's when he notices she can't stop staring at him. No, not him, his neck.

He looks up at her. "Is it bad?"

She blinks, looking surprised at his direct question, how he's just called her on it. Giving him a tight smile, she replies, "It's not so bad. You can always wear a jumper with a neck to cover it up."

He nods. "So... pretty bad."

Her eyes soften around the edges, a look of sincerity seeping into them as she leans close and presses her hand on his feet, buried beneath the sheets. "Simon, what happened to you? The bruises... your face-" She lifts her hand and moves it towards his brow but he flinches away. "Who hurt you?"

"It's nothing."

She sighs. "Simon-"

"I'm fine," he answers tersely.

"How can you say that, Simon? You tried to _kill _yourself! Everyone is worried about you. I was super worried about you. What if I hadn't come home? You'd be dead. You'd-"

"I said I'm _fine_, Becca," he snaps, his eyes landing on hers.

Her gaze widens, her mouth opening and closing as the tears spring up. He's never lost his temper with her before, never yelled at her like he's just done. "O-okay," she says quietly. "You're fine." She quickly stands from the chair and starts walking away.

"Rebecca," he calls after her. "Becca, wait, I-" It's no use, she's already gone from the room. "I didn't mean it," he says to himself, looking back at the spot she was just sitting with a sigh.

Not even a minute later, a nurse comes into the room and moves swiftly towards his bed. "Everything all right in here?"

He looks up at her with a slight scowl. "Why do you ask?"

"Your monitor is off and we could hear you yelling from the hall."

"Everything is fine."

"Well, then, lets get this back on you," she replies, reaching for the device.

He snatches it up before she can do so and crams it back on his finger. "Sorted."

There's the smallest fraction of annoyance in her eyes that he tries to pretend he doesn't see as she asks, "Can I get you anything."

"A new life."

"What?"

Had he said that out loud? "Um..." He swallows and it's like someone's set off a match inside his throat. It feels like it's on fire. "Water," he tells her. "Some water would be good."

"Okay, I'll just be back in a minute or two."

He gives her a tight nod and listens to her muttering under her breath as she leaves and silently hopes there will be a shift change sometime soon so he doesn't have to deal with her again. Looking around the room once more, he wonders where Rebecca may have gone, and why his parents have yet to come in and see him. He lifts his hand to wipe the sweat from his brow and bumps into his stitches, causing a hiss to fall from between his clenched teeth.

Simon hates this, hates being confined to a room he doesn't know. The only familiarity is that it's just as lonely here as it is at home. And that loneliness only gives him more time to think about things he doesn't care to think about. Like Rebecca's words about him not being okay. He _did _almost die.

There are a million things racing through his head and he can't get his mind to just _settle_. As if that wasn't enough, the urge to use the loo strikes. He glances down at the contraption on his finger and frowns. Taking it off means the nurse will come back. He turns in his bed and looks at the monitor, leans as far over as his bruised body will let him and searches for a way to shut it off.

It doesn't take him long to figure it out, he's always been good with electronics. He's always been good at a lot of things that no one's ever given him credit for, like that time he took that microwave apart in fifteen minutes and then reassembled it. He's still rather proud of that.

When he takes the device off, he almost smiles to himself as it stays silent. Gathering all the strength he can muster, he pushes himself from the bed and takes slow, careful steps in the direction of the bathroom. Each bit of motion, each time his foot falls against the floor, it sends painstaking jabs through his entire body. He's nearly out of breath by the time he pushes his way into the loo. He uses the sink and wall for support until he's made it to the toilet, and finds himself embarrassed that he can't stand to use it, but instead has to sit because his legs feel like they'll give out on him.

As soon as he's finished, it's back to leaning against the wall until he makes it to the sink. He tells himself to keep moving, but his feet seem to lock into place of their own accord, leaving him standing directly in front of the mirror. He wants so desperately to look, to assess the damage, but fears that whatever he sees might make this whole situation worse. He has to actually _force _himself not to look, to keep his eyes averted to the white porcelain of the sink as he washes his hands.

Not even a moment later, a loud cracking sound fills the air and he jumps, almost loosing his footing. Balancing himself, he begins to edge his way back into his room with a curious pinch of his eyebrows. Another crack rings out, and he notes the sound is coming from somewhere outside. With careful steps, he makes his way over to the window and raises the blinds. There's a loud boom, and suddenly the dark night sky is filling up with color, a mix of blue and green and purple.

Fireworks.

Somewhere out there, someone is lighting up the sky with fireworks. He watches as another goes off, and another after that, the room catching the reflection of each one and bouncing it around. He smiles even though it hurts. He hasn't had the courage to go near fire since attempting to burn Matt's house down. The thought makes him frown and step back from the window. That's when the thing he was trying the hardest to avoid happens- he catches his reflection in the window.

The air catches in his throat as he leans closer to get a better look. There's so much to take in at one time. Both his lips are swollen, and one of his eyes is half shut. His hair is a tangled mess and matted to the one side of his head and there's a cut above his left eyebrow. If all that wasn't enough to make his stomach twist, he gets a closer look at the stitches Rebecca told him about. The area surrounding them is raised up and round, about the size of a golf ball. In fact, the entire right side of his face is swollen. He looks like a monster.

Reaching up, despite how badly his aching back screams in protest at the motion, he tries to flatten his hair down over the stitches. He frantically pushes and pulls at it, trying to smooth it down just enough to cover them and, when it won't work, the sob bursts out from somewhere deep inside his chest. His eyes fill up until his vision is blurry and he can't stop pulling at his hair, doesn't want to stop. This must be what losing his mind feels like, he thinks, as he lets himself slips to the floor and curls his knees up against his chest.

That's how the nurse finds him and, of course, she calls for the doctor. She comes over to him and bends down so her face is close to his and shines a light through the tears in his eyes and just touches and touches him everywhere until he screams at her to stop.

All he wants is that damn glass of water... and some air. He can't breathe. That's what he tells her through gasps. "I can't breathe. Why... can't... I breathe?"

"It appears you're having a panic attack."

There's a name for this?

"I want you to put your face between your knees and try to take some deep breaths."

For the record, it is impossible for one to laugh when experiencing a panic attack. He would know, he tries. Because he wants to laugh at the stupidity of being told to take deep breaths when he can't breathe. He wants to spit fire and venom at this nurse who's doing _nothing _to help him. He only ends up choking and spluttering and crying harder.

He really is losing it.

It doesn't take long for a doctor to come in. His parents either, apparently. He mum ends up beside him, practically shoving the nurse out of the way.

"Are you okay?" she asks, touching his face. "What is it, honey? Simon?"

She won't shut up. He still can't breathe or think and she's crowding all his space. His mind only registers one thing, making it _stop. _He ends up shoving his mum backwards and struggling to his feet, but his legs are flimsy and he ends up collapsing on himself. It makes him feel so ashamed.

Everything around him has become so distorted he can only make out certain words from the doctor, like episode and sedative. Something he vehemently tries to express not wanting. The words he can't speak are lost on him as the nurse comes up beside him and raises the arm of his gown. He doesn't even try to fight as the needle pinches into his arm with a sting.

He flips over with a cringe and looks up to find his parents staring down at him, disappointment on his father's face, sadness on his mum's.

Things start to get hazy again, the way they did when he nearly died. The feeling coats him like a heavy wave, its undertow far too strong to fight as it drags him under.

He finally manages to take a breath.

...

There are seventy- two ceilings tiles in his room. He's counted them six times. There are seventy- two tiles and he only knows this because he started staring at them to avoid what's sitting in front of him.

"Simon?"

He slowly lowers his gaze until he's looking at his parents. His fathers stare is hard, but there's a softness to the edge of his eyes. He's trying to look stern while his mind wanders. Simon knows this because he's been told by Becca that he gets the same look.

He glances to his mum. She has her eyes cast to the floor. She hasn't really looked at him since he pushed her. He's wanted to apologize so many times, but that requires talking, and that's something he's been avoiding as of late.

"Are you ready to talk about this?" his father asks.

He doesn't respond, hardly even blinks.

Shifting on his feet, seeming almost uncomfortable, his father continues. "The doctor's said you've been refusing to take your med's and haven't been eating much. They say they can't get you to talk. This isn't healthy, son. Everyone's worried about you. We're worried about you."

Worried. He's heard that word get thrown around so often these days, and he's gotten quite good at not letting it affect him. No one was worried when he was being bullied everyday. But apparently trying to burn someone's house down and kill yourself after makes _everyone _worry. Makes them just want to make sure you're okay.

He stews over this thought. He's done that a lot lately, been so angry at everything.

"We wanted to speak to you about the unit."

He lowers his eyebrows and clenches his teeth so tightly together his jaw screams in protest. He wonders if he looks as angry as he feels, like he could tear the whole room down with his hands. It was much worse two days prior when he was informed that, in order to assess his mental health before starting community service, they were going to put him away for a little while. In an institution.

There had been a lot of talk about his well- being, a variety of words used against him. Unstable, painfully shy, introverted, unpredictable... unsafe. These are the things people think about him. At least he knows that now. They said they wanted to send him there to assess his health, but he knows the real reason. They think he's crazy.

They look for proof of this, so he gives them nothing. Since the news of where he would be going, he's said nothing. Because nothing can't be crazy. It's too busy being void of everything. He's made himself nothing.

"If you have any questions-" his father stops as Simon's eyes go back to the ceiling, back to counting the tiles.

"Simon?"

He glances down, in his mum's direction as she's finally spoken to him. There are tears on her face and, no matter how much he tells himself to feel nothing, his stomach still clenches. His hard stare softens.

"Did Matt and his friends do this to you?"

His eyes widen for the briefest of seconds before he catches himself, reins in the look of surprise.

"Your sister told us what kids at school are saying. That he- that Matt told his friends to beat you up. Is that true?"

He wishes she'd stop saying his name. His gaze goes to his lap, at his hands wrung so tightly together the bones are beginning to ache.

"Talk to us," she pleads. "Tell us what happened! We can go to the police."

He shakes his head.

Her own jaw tightens for the smallest of moments. "Simon, you are our son and we love you. We want to know you're okay. We... _I_, would like answers. Are those boys the reason you did... what you did?"

What he did. She can't even bring herself to say the words, to acknowledge that he tried to kill himself. Everyone tip- toes around him since his mini break down two days prior. Like anything they say or do will drive him back to that point. As if he's so mentally fragile he can't handle things on his own, so they're going to send him away because none of them knows how to handle him, either.

"Simon," she presses.

The only solution he can find to the pestering is to look up and stare, simply stare at her until she gets so uncomfortable she looks away. His lip twitches with a small, satisfied smile, and he lets his eyes drift back to the ceiling.

He wonders, for the briefest of moments- ones that feel like a lifetime, if he really is crazy, and begins to count the ceiling tiles once more.

...

He shouldn't be here. Back pressed tight against the wall, both hands clenched into fists and shoved under his armpits, Simon watches as two large men drag a girl who can't weigh more than a bag of rocks down a hall. She kicks and screams and swipes at them, reminding him of a rabid animal. He would never behave like that, he thinks. How did he end up here?

"Bellamy?"

He jerks his head in the direction of his name to a woman a few feet away behind the counter, a nurse. She's staring at him expectantly, and he knows there's something he should be doing. Going over to her? His feet are heavy, like sludge. He's rooted to this spot he's made against the wall, trying to blend in, to disappear. Another glance down the hall, he catches a glimpse of the girls legs as she's pulled around the corner. His skin itches.

"Simon?"

A look behind him, to his mum's voice. Where'd she come from? Had she been there the whole time?

"It's the medicine," he hears another nurse whisper to his father. "He's going to be out of it for a little while."

"Bellamy?" they call again.

His mum nods at him. "Go on," she tells him.

It's almost like auto pilot. He gets from one spot to the next but can't recall how he got there. But suddenly he's at the counter and he's watching himself take things out of his pockets and put them in a white container on the counter.

His phone.

He pauses, hand suspended above the box and stares at his phone in his hand. What is he doing?

"That, too," the nurse says.

He looks up at her, blinks, back to his phone. "I- I need it."

"No phones," she replies. "No electronic devices."

"Does that mean he can't have the new iPod we got him?" his mum asks from somewhere behind him.

New iPod? The pieces come back together slow, and ill fitting. A rope, the fall, Becca's words about breaking his other one. Becca? Where was Becca? He looks around for her as images flash through his mind. That scream, that _look _on her face when she found him. So frantic, so scared. He tries to shake them away.

"Put the phone in the box."

"But I need it," he hears himself say as his hand sets it down. What's happening?

"Shoes."

He blinks, glances up, tries to recall when he sat down. A flicker of panic strikes. He looks around at the new, more unfamiliar setting. "Mum?" When had his parents left? "Dad?"

"They're gone, sweetie."

His gaze falls on the nurse standing up in front of him, a different one. She gives him a sympathetic look that makes her eyes crinkle at the edges and his body flushes. She's a pretty nurse, he hadn't expected pretty nurses.

"Well, thank you," she says.

Words are just tumbling from his mouth without him wanting them to. He's saying things he wouldn't usually say. "Where-"

"You were a little out of it when they went. They said to tell you goodbye."

All he finds himself able to do then is nod. Small nods, like a fit. It comes back to him, the girl being dragged away. Are they making him like her? Is that what this is?

"I need you to remove your shoes," the new nurse says.

Everything about him feels lighter, he notes, looking down at his feet and the rest of him. "My stuff?"

"Put up," she replies. "Somewhere safe. You'll get all your things back when you leave. Now, shoes."

He stares at her a few minutes longer, and then, with a sigh, kicks them off. She bends down to retrieve them and places a pair of slippers at his feet. His bare feet. Where did his socks go ? None of this is right. Time's passing, slipping away. He's missing stuff. It's all wrong. He's confused, so confused. And scared. "I'm scared," his mouth says.

"It'll be okay," she softly replies.

He wipes at tears with the back of his hand and touches his pounding head, prods at the stitches with his fingertips and pulls his hand down with a hiss. There's more caution the next time he reaches up, carefully smoothing the hair down over it.

"Here we are."

"What?" He stares at the door in front of him, brows pinched together and hands clenched at his sides. He's tense, wound up.

"Your room," she replies. "We're here. You should have this place to yourself for a bit here, but eventually you'll probably get a room mate."

"I don't want a room," he tells her. His voice seems so foreign to him. Flat and lifeless. He's like... like a robot.

"Sorry?"

"No room," he repeats. "I want to go home."

"Oh. Sorry, Simon. No can do."

He sighs and leans forward so his face is pressed against the door. Exhaustion has struck. He's suddenly so very tired. "What now?" he mumbles.

"Rest," she answers. "You can go inside and lie down if you'd like. It's up to you. I'll be around to get you for dinner."

"Not hungry."

"That's fine. Today's just a day for settling in. Tomorrow will be when things really start."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. You do remember what I said? About the activities around here?"

Simon shakes his head. The last thing he recalls is slippers. He stares down at them and takes a deep breath. It hurts. "Ow," he says quietly.

"Bout ready for your pain meds?"

"No," he answers sharply, more clear than he's been this whole time. "No medicine." The idea of anymore of what he's already been dealing with terrifies him. He just wants this to be over.

"All right. Then you can just-"

Simon opens his eyes and his heartbeat spikes. He has to blink a few times before his eyes adjust to the dark, while his hands slide over a smooth, cool material. Sheets, he recognizes. He's in a bed. But when? This takes some thought, quite a bit of it, but it's easier than before. The medicine appears to be wearing off. He recalls the nurse helping him into the room. But getting into bed?

He lifts his hand and sets it on his stomach, noting that his clothing is different. She must have helped him get changed, too. Heat creeps into his cheeks at the thought. A woman had undressed him and he couldn't even remember it? Probably doesn't want to, he tells himself. As if he'd need anymore humiliation. All he knows now, in this moment, is that he never wants to have that experience again.

It's scary to him, how lost he'd felt. Like he really had gone out of his mind. And that can't be right, can it? He's not that girl being dragged down the hall, he's not the person he can hear through the wall taking to themselves. That's not him at all. Is it?

The weight of sleep creeps in again while his mind races. There's always tomorrow he thinks. He can figure it out, then. He doesn't belong here. This is some sort of mistake. Only the real crazies stay here so they have to let him out.

He'll get out.

He says it over and over in his head until it sounds convincing enough a lie for him to drift away again.

...

"Light's out!"

This is his cue, this is how he knows it's coming. Something clicks from out in the hall, a switch, and suddenly his room is shrouded in darkness.

The first shriek makes his blood run cold, goose bumps spreading across his skin. It reaches places he didn't know he could get such chills. A shiver runs through him.

They scream. Every night they scream.

He reaches up, hands covering his ears and pressing against them, trying to block out the sound. He pushes so hard his head hurts. He'll have a migraine in the morning. He stares up at the ceiling, watches the way the light from the moon filtering in through the windows catches reflection and dances around. He tries to find a pattern in them. Usually this works and he's able to drift off.

It doesn't work tonight.

Closing his eyes, he counts each breath of air he pulls into his lungs and lets his mind wander. He tries to go somewhere else, think of something else, but his mind is trapped in this place. Only a week and already this place has dug its way deep down inside him and grasped him in its clutches so it's all he can think about. He hates it.

The worst of it is the smell. The sight he can block out with a simple motion of shutting his eyes, but the smell remains. It reminds him of the hospital. Antiseptic and paint and _piss_. It's curled itself around the inside of his nostrils and he can't get it out.

If that wasn't enough, the entire place is one big sheet of white and blue. White walls, blue tiles... everywhere throughout this place. There was a time when he would look around his own room and find his surroundings boring and bland, but it was his space, so he still had a fondness for it. This is different.

He doesn't understand how a place can be so bright and still seem so dark. He hates the colors, hates the way the ground squeaks beneath his feet when he walks, and the inspirational posters littering the halls. Sometimes he swears if he sees one more, 'Believe in yourself,' picture, he just might decide to kill himself again and manage to succeed his second go.

He recalls how he once loved structure and plans, enjoyed order. That's changing. There's too much order here. Sometimes he wishes he could go to sleep and not wake up because he knows what will be coming when he does. Routine. He'll get up and go to the breakfast hall to eat, go back to his room and brush his teeth, spend a few hours staring at the wall. Then there's therapy, lunch, a little free time in the rec room before heading to group therapy, dinner, then back to his room for the rest of the night where they'll pass out meds right before he goes to sleep. And he'll get up and do it all over again the next day.

No one's called him.

Neither his parents or Rebecca have come by to see him.

This place is loud and too quiet and suffocating and _lonely_.

The screams in the halls become a crescendo of noise that dip into his mind and block out all other thought. He squeezes his eyes shut and begs for sleep as a means of escaping it. It won't come, this place is no solitude for granting desires.

He hates it here.

No one cares that he hates it here.

...

**Please leave your thoughts, it's super appreciated.**


	3. The bullet in the chamber of the gun

**I do not own Misfits or any of it's wonderful characters, I just brought my own lunchbox in and decided to hang out.**

**Hey guys! If you've appeared here whether on purpose or by accident... welcome. And I hope you enjoy reading.**

**...**

Simon spends a lot of time thinking. It's not like there's much else to do when a majority of ones time consists of either being in their room, or switching between therapists, with the occasional meal thrown in between. He's in his room a lot. There isn't much outside it that interests him.

Considering visitors aren't allowed to give gifts to the patients, his mum had to take home the stack of comics she'd recently brought up to him. He tried to pretend that it didn't bother him so she wouldn't get more upset than she already was, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't wish she'd spoken out about it more. Instead of just sliding them back into her look with a dejected sigh and a small frown. He'd have said something if he wasn't still so focused on not talking to anyone.

There are small distractions, he supposes. Like that small library the unit has that he's allowed to check books out of. Although the selection is small and most of the books look like they're meant for children. He did find The Odyssy and had taken a shot at reading that, but quickly gave up when he realized that it was just as depressing a book as his life seemed to be at that moment. It's been staring at him from its spot on the dresser for a week now and each time the boredom seems to increase, he gets the urge to torture himself with it.

Until that moment possibly happens, or something better comes along- something he doesn't put much stock in these days- he mostly just sits with his own thoughts. Which can be a pretty scary thing during times like these, when he's feeling so out of control.

Sometimes he'll think about his parents, wondering how they're making due at home without him. He tries not to be bitter, tries to rationalize- something he's always been good at- their reasoning for sending him here, but most of the time it gets drowned out by anger when it dawns on him that they let him get stuck in here like some trapped animal. There's a metaphorical chain around his ankle that he spends ninety percent of the day trying to chew his way out of.

He imagines them and Rebecca at the dinner table, his chair empty, and them chatting or laughing like there isn't the giant elephant in the room that is their missing son. He wonders if they think about him. They told him they do during their second visit together. His mum said it's not the same not having him there to chat with like they usually do after she's worked a long shift at the pub. His dad said it's strange not having some sort of science show on the telly as background noise while he builds his model airplanes- something they used to do together when he was a kid, as he makes sure to remind him. They talk to him like these things are suddenly some far distant part of the past, and not like he wasn't just sitting in that same living room a few weeks prior watching Doctor Who.

He tells himself that they say all these things when they're with him, but that in reality it seems more likely that they just go about their days like they don't have a son in a mental institution. It must be easier that way. His dad did say he often gets stopped at the supermarket by neighbors and asked for the details of what happened, because apparently whatever rumors might have been floating around just weren't gossip-y enough. They need to feed that itch of knowing that there's just one more person out there that they're better than. He can picture one of his parents possibly telling someone that he's just gone off for a little while, like his cousin Natalie did that one time... for nine months. Sure the circumstances are entirely different but the main concept is the same. Something happened, they're gone, but they'll come back. They'll come back and things will be different. Will he come back different?

When he's not thinking about his parents, he's picturing that day with Matt and his mates. _That day_, as he's come to call it, is still as fresh in his mind as if it happened yesterday. Sometimes when he closes his eyes he can still feel their hands on him, hitting him, _hurting _him. He'll hear their taunts like a screaming storm inside his head, blocking out any other rational mindset. He'll get so lost in repeating out loud the things they'd said that sometimes he'll even catch himself doing it outside his room, and snap out of it to find one or two of the nurses staring at him. They'll give him that look that lets him know they're sure he's gone off the deep end and he'll quickly clam back up, reverting somewhere deeper inside himself as the thoughts rage on.

When those moments aren't mentally beating him down, he'll find small ways to combat it. He'll go over all the come back's he could have come up with to sling at them while they hit him. He'll lie awake in his bed at night and hiss these brutal words that he didn't even know could come out of him. Simon even goes as far as picturing what it would have been like if he'd fought back, if he'd just done _something _to defend himself. He may not have been able to take on all five of them, but what about just one? What if he'd been able to get his hands on that kid with the scraggle tooth? How he would have enjoyed hurting him, he thinks. But then, like it always does, the guilt will come settling in as he reminds himself that there's a reason he didn't fight back. One part niceness, two parts cowardice. He tries to tell himself that he didn't fight back because deep down he's a _good _person, and that he's better because he didn't. While the other half of him is spent kicking himself for being too scared to take a stand. Even if the opportunity arose for him to do something, he probably wouldn't have.

In the early morning, before this prison has come to life and the screaming starts, and all these things are expected of him, Simon will creep out of bed. He'll make his way over to the window and he'll remove his shirt. There, he'll stand in front of that it until he catches his reflection and runns his hands across his skin, over arms and his chest and stomach. He allows himself the briefest of moments to trace the bruise along his neck with his finger tips, prodding at it until it hurts like it did when he first got it. He tells himself he's real. He's still a part of something and he exists, even if it feels like there's a giant hole where his heart used to be. He'll pinch and poke at himself until it stings and the air feels like it's settled back into his broken lungs and then, only then, does he feel like he can face the day. Because it's not living if he's not sure if he's alive. And even then there are still those crippling moments where he questions whether or not he even _wants _to be that.

This place can get confusing and terrifying. It has the ability, he's learning, to make you question everything. Like how much time really goes by in the day. He swears the minutes stretch into hours, and yet night time always seems to turn to morning in the time it takes to blink. Sometimes, even at the dead of dawn, the halls are too dark and the quiet is too loud. He'll swear he hears the taps dripping in the bathrooms and he'll walk faster like there are monsters on his tail. Maybe there are, he wonders. This place seems haunted by all the people who have passed through it, their old presense so persistently still acknowledged by the scratches on the doors and the nicks at the tables. Those people still exist here, it seems. And he wonders if he'll become on of them. Just another ghost.

These are the things that get to him, the little biting thoughts that seem to gnaw down to the bone. The incapability to turn them off because there's just too much _time _to think about it all. It's there in the morning at breakfast, and mid afernoon during therapy when he's pretending to care about all those things he's not actually talking about, and at night... at night, always. At bed time with the shades drawn and the covers pulled up to his chin, hands tucked tight under the pillow, gripping at it as the weight of all there is to mull over coats his brain like thick tar and makes it impossible for sleep to come. Not that he minds so much anymore, not going to bed.

Simon used to love sleep. He had this thing where he loved fighting it, holding off until just that right moment of complete and utter exhaustion and then closing his eyes and feeling it drift over and pull him under. It used to be comforting, a calm in the wake of the things that plagued him during the day. There, he could forgot. He could hand it all over and just give in. It's not like that anymore. In here, there's wide awake staring at the ceiling until you feel like your eyes will bleed because if you close them, you're only going to hear the sound of that chair hitting the floor repeatedly. Or the jeers and laughter of people who more than likely would have been very pleased if you had succeeded in killing yourself. Or your sister screaming about not knowing how to help you as the world slipped away for those few brief, terrifying moments that now you only wish would return.

Sleep is nightmares. Sleep is finally closing his eyes and imagining he's back at home in his own bed, and waking up every morning here.

His therapist gave him a notebook, a journal she called it. When she realized she wasn't going to get him to talk. She told him, "Write what you can't say." For a while he ignored it, knowing that every day he would have to turn it into her and she would read how he felt about things. Things he still doesn't quite know how to put into words, anyway. But tonight, at bed time, when the lights are already meant to be out and he's thinking about how his thoughts have turned into a loud buzz like an angry swarm of bees, he pulls it out from under his mattress.

Opening it up and taking out the pen tucked inside, he stares at that blank page for a long time. There's so much he could put here, he knows. It's like staring down at a clean slate, all the other horrible shit wiped away for the moment. There's just him and his empty book, and endless possibilities.

_When I was a young boy, _he starts, hand quivering until steadying out firmly as the words drip out in ink. _I used to rip the wings off flies and watch them walk around until they stopped moving. _

_Now the wings have been ripped off me. _

_..._

It's confounding to him, how certain things end up bothering him when he knows they shouldn't. Times when he'll ask himself why he even cares about the thing that will all the sudden start to annoy him. Like today, for example, during his one on one with Doctor Lewis. The way she said not one word about the journal he'd so precariously set on her desk after agonizing over it for a few days.

It was impossible for him to take his eyes off it during his session, with it sitting there like some flashing neon red sign. Doctor Lewis hadn't paid a single mind to it when she'd sat down at her desk, like it wasn't even there. He'd waited there on the couch, with his knees pressed tight together, hunched over. He waited for her to pick up it, to flip it open, for her to read those words he'd used up all his energy to write. She didn't, of course. In fact, she'd even moved i from where he'd sat it like it was in here way. As if he had inconvenienced her by setting it there. At least that was how it felt.

Now here he is at lunch two hours later, and he can't stop thinking about it. He never would have expected it to make him so upset, but it has. He sits with a plastic fork in hand, shoving around the food on his plate, going over in his head what he might have done wrong to make her not want to read it.

Couldn't she have pretend to be at least somewhat interested in it? After all, she was the one who had given it to him. She had told him when she gave it to him that she assumed it would never get used, but he'd done it. Surely that counted for something? Some sort of progress? A notch that lead him one step closer to going home?

The conflicting part is not knowing why he cares so much. Hadn't he told himself before he set it down on her desk that he hoped she would ignore it? He's never liked talking, anway. No doubt that's exactly what she would have made him do, ask him about what he wrote and why he wrote it, and what did he mean? As if he'd have the answers to those sort of questions anyway. He'd pretty much spent the first fifteen minutes of his session making up possible reasons to give her for when she did ask.

And she hadn't.

And it hasn't bothered him before but now it does, and he feel ridiculous. He sits there imagining going back to her room and demanding an answer when someone clears their throat behind him, causing him to jump. Tensed up, he slowly looks over his should to find a nurse standing behind him, a little too close for comfort. He leans forward a bit, not taking his eyes off her, and is it his imagination flaring up again or does she look a bit unnerved, just then?

"You all right?" she asks in a monotone voice, like she asks it so often in a day that eventually she stops seeming like she actually cares what she's asking. When he doesn't respond, she asks again, this time a rise of annoyance in her tone.

He sinks down in his seat and nods briskly, trying to avoid anymore eye contact with her.

That's another one of those things he can't stand about this place: someone's always staring, and usually at him. Therapists, nurses, security... other patients. They think he doesn't see it, how quick they are to look away, turn their heads, but Simon's always been acutely aware of things like that. Years of being bullied definitely helped. If he closes his eyes, and it's silent enough, he can still hear their jaunts and laughter.

Here in the unite, it's something else entirely. There's no noise when he catches someone watching him. Not so much a cough or a sneeze. They just...stare, quietly. And there's been something else about these looks that he can't quite put his finger on. Something deeper and more complex, he thinks.

"Try less mumbling to yourself."

He turns his head to find the nurse still standing there and he gives her a confused look.

She rolls her eyes. "You were talking to yourself before. I would recommend less of that, wouldn't want people to get the impression that you're..." She makes a whistling sound accompanied by a finger twirling motion next to her head.

Crazy, he thinks, possibly even lowering his eyes at her. Possibly even holding that look until, with a click of her tongue, the nurse turns and walks away. But not without a parting look over her shoulder and the shake of her head.

Simon bites down on his tongue and resists glowering more. At least until she's entirely gone. Looking back at the table with a scowl, he tell himself to let it go. It's not worth getting worked up about. In all reality, she did have a small bit of a point.

Glancing over his shoulder a fraction, he surveys the room from his secluded table in the corner. It's looking around at the others- the real mentals- everyday, that puts into perspective just how far down from actually crazy he falls on the list. It's not like he's sitting in the middle of the dining hall beating his fists against his face, screaming. Or being restrained and hand fed lest he stab someone with his plastic fork. He's nothing like that, never could be.

So then why is he the one subjected to sitting in the farthest spot in the room, with the nurses treating his quietness, or even small out burst, like some extreme case? He doesn't get it. At least not then.

It isn't until later that it all becomes clear.

...

Rule number twenty- three: when needing to use the loo, always contact a nurse.

Rule number twenty- four: never go into the loo by oneself.

Funny, Simon wouldn't have expected his first offense to be over something as simple as taking a piss. They're rubbish rules anyway, he tells himself as he pushes open the door to the loo and steps inside. Walking to the urinal, he rationalizes his breaking the rules. In fifteen minutes group therapy would be starting, and it made more sense to him to go first, instead of standing outside in a line after with a full bladder and people who take too long to go. This is a better idea.

Simon, unfortunately, still hasn't quite come to terms with the fact that most of his idea aren't actually good ideas. Sure, sometimes he comes up with some effective ones, but he's been off the past few months. He hates to think it, but he'd link it to what happened that night. His thoughts take him back there for a moment, and he supposes he could attribute that to why one minute he's pulling up his joggers, and the next he's being hoisted up under the chin and slammed into the wall. He wasn't paying attention

His skull makes a sickening crack against the tiles, blinding white taking over his vision as it now feels like his eyes are rolling around inside his head. The pressure against his throat increases until his feet leave the ground, and there's only one thing flashing through his mind, then. He's back in his room with that rope around his neck, but there's no music this time, only a loud ringing in his ears. Ringing and pain as the hold on his neck tightens further against a bruise that hasn't even faded.

He's going to die, he thinks, and instinctively starts kicking his legs, which only makes his body slide down on the tile and the pressure to increase.

"P- please," he chokes, the word coming out like a high- pitched squeak.

"Quiet boy," a voice croons.

Simon stills long enough to be able to intake a small gasp of air as he realizes that he recognizes the voice of this person. Opening his eyes, someone comes into his line of slightly blurred vision. A name, he thinks. What's his name?

Sam! His mind screams the name. Snap Sam, he recalls someone in group once referring to him, on account of how quick his moods could change. Paranoid schizophrenic, someone else had said. But what was it the group therapist had said about him? That he was harmless? Or was it mostly harmless? What would they call this, a small mood swing? Was he even medicated?

"Sam," he wheezes, quick to cringe a second later when Sam's face comes close to his, dangerously close. He gags at the stench of Sam's rank breath, caused by god knows what, as he breaths into his nostrils. That gagging makes his throat hurt more and he struggles to turn his head, hoping to get a small gasp of fresh air.

"Quiet boy got something to say? Quiet boy finally gonna talk?"

Talk? He'd start singing God save the Queen if he knew it meant he'd be released... and at least mildly unscathed. The burn of clothing rubbing against his raw throat is uncomfortable enough as it is, like the time he ripped a blister on his hand off using sandpaper. He'd just wanted to know what it felt like, and now he had a new reminder.

"Let me-" he starts to say, but Sam quickly cuts him off with a low, keening whine at the back of his throat. It's a sound that almost makes Simon feel bad for him.

"Trouble," he bites out with a twitch. "Gonna... trouble. Trouble. Nurses!" He hisses, his eyes widening. "Nurses talking. Quiet boy. Too quiet they say. B- bug eyes. Creepy. Think I can't hear 'em. Can't..." He twitches again, violently, something that makes Simon tremor. It gets worse when Sam goes back to pressing hard on his throat.

"Dangerous, he says, draws the word out real slow. "Quiet boy's dangerous. Head case. Hurt... hurt someone." Sam's eyes, though he wouldn't think it possible, seem to grow wider still. "You'd hurt me, quiet boy?"

How does one answer that? A bit hard to shake your head when someone's got their arm on your jugular. Simon tries a different tactic, choosing to mouth the word no instead, as many times as he can.

"Nurses says," he replies in a panicked voice.

God he wishes he could say something, anything. Call the nurses liars, scream for help, anything besides this silence. And when Sam applies that final amount of pushing, he swears this is it. He'd survived a hanging in his bedroom only to wind up being strangled to death in the loo by a guy who smells faintly of vomit. What a way to go, he thinks, closing his eyes.

There's no way to escape the ending here, but maybe he can make the scenery a little better in his head? It's always been nicer there, anyway. What would his end credits look like, he wonders right before gravity's pull envelopes him and he falls hard on his side against the floor. A noise he might compare to a dying seal escapes him as the breath he didn't even really have gets knocked out of him.

When he does finally get some air back to his lungs, it's in short, quick gasps. Worse, his hip feels like it might be broken. Another bruise to add to the collection. It's already extremely painful to even prop himself up on his elbow. It takes him a bit to regain some focus, he must struggle a good ten minutes working at get his composure back. He's slowly managed to work himself up to a sitting position when a loud crack behind him makes him flinch and curl into himself, bringing back a searing pain in his side from the fall.

He waits a minute, unsure of whether he even wants to look, before curiosity gets the best of him and he uncurls a little and turns his head to the right. Gaze settling on the wall behind him, his mouth falls into a horrific O at the sight of blood. He'd been pinned to that wall only moments before, he reminds himself. His heart leaps as he cranes his head around to find it's source and he catches Sam right as he crashes into it again at full speed.

A scream that might have escaped had he known what was going to happen before that moment catches at the back of his throat. It doesn't take much for his adrenaline to kick in, and he hurriedly claws his way to his feet, no thought of the pain he was currently in.

When Sam turns to look at him, Simon's stomach convulses, causing his eyes to well up. Sam stands there, chest heaving, with blood pouring down his face like a curtain from the gash leading from one side of his forehead to the other. Simon's never seen so much blood before, nothing so red and sticky looking. It's like that for a while, him just standing there, that blood forming into a puddle at his feet.

Simon swallows hard, throat catching fire with the action. "S- sam," he tries quietly.

Sam's head snaps up, and Simon only makes out one word: Run, before Sam is charging at him.

He doesn't remember starting to scream.

...

"You're lucky security was close by."

Simon looks up from his spot on the bed in the nurses station, at the nurse he slightly recalls showing him around his first day here. He gives a slight nod.

"He hadn't been taking his medicine. That's the cause of all this, really. I've worked with Sam for six months now, he's not usually like that."

A psychotic murderer? Simon thinks, holding back a scoff.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that. The other nurses... they'll say you were partly to blame for going in alone but..." She sighs. "I always thought it was such a silly rule. And either way, it doesn't mean you deserve what happened. If they try to give you hell for it, just let me know and I'll take care of it."

There's something in her stare he can't quite place... sincerity, maybe? A look he's not quite used to receiving from anyone here, and it makes him nervous. He nods and looks back at the floor.

"Did he hurt you?"

He looks up for a brief moment.

"Did he?"

It's a surprise to him, the way his head slowly bobs the confirmation. He wonders why he answered, what he's doing, as he watches her cross the room towards him. Maybe the look she gave him before wasn't so bad after all? Maybe it felt good? Maybe he wants her to show it again, that kind crinkle around her eyes. How long's it been since someone showed him that? Almost unconsciously, though, he flinches when she sits down close to him on the small hospital bed.

"It's okay," she says without pause. "I just want to make sure you're okay." Her voice is light and soft, like the comfort of having a warm blanket draped around him. Still, that small bit of apprehensiveness is still there, and he watches her carefully as she raises her hands up and asks, "where?"

And he almost does it. Nearly. Hand half raised towards his throat, to the sweatshirt covering the bruise, he stops, hoping she doesn't catch it, and lowers his hand to his hip.

She quirks her brow. "Really?"

He nods, heat pooling in his cheeks and around his ears.

"All right," she breathes out, standing up from the bed, and he watches her alarmed. "Well, then, as it's a blow the waist sustained injury, I am required to have a male staff take a look and evaluate it so I'll just go get someone quick and-" She stops at the vehement shake of his head. "What, no you don't want me to go get someone else or... no, you no longer wish to see your injury attended to?"

When he doesn't say anything, she sighs loudly. "You know, Simon, this would be so much easier if you would just talk to us." At his persisted silence, she rubs at her forehead before telling him, "That's fine. Fine. Don't worry about group, I'll explain what happened. If they haven't already heard. You can retire to your room for the evening."

It stings a little, this thing that feels like a form of rejection from her, though if he were in a logical mindset he'd see that it's not. Standing up, he shuffles away on heavy feet, with her eyes burning holes into his backside the entire way.

...

The light in Simon's room is too dim. It's hard to really see himself clearly standing in front of the window, shirt off, staring at his reflection. They're not allowed to have glass in their rooms, which makes a mirror non optional, the only reason he uses this means to begin with. Unless he wanted to wait until morning to go back into the same loo he'd been attacked in and assess the damage.

The doctor that frequents the building every two weeks or so had told him that his stitches in his forehead could come out soon, something he's been looking forward to.

Although the news that he'd more than likely have a permanent scar in that spot hadn't sat too well with him. The only solution he's been able to come up with as a means to hide the grotesque feature is to part his hair in a way that covers it, swooped over far enough that only one small stitch is slightly visible.

That's only one thing, though. It's something he can find himself forgetting is there unless he accidentally bumps it, or crinkles his brow too hard. Then that small twinge will remind him and he'll quickly make sure his hair is in place. Other than that, it's almost non existent. It's not the worse of the damage to his body, he thinks, standing in front of the window with his head tilted back. The bruise around his neck is more predominant after the incident in the loo. He can feel the rawness of it when he swallows and he cringes at it all.

Ugly, he tells himself. As if there weren't enough things that he found wrong with himself, that he constantly put himself down over. His wide eyes passed down from his mum, ones that earned him the title bug- eyes in school. His wide lips that make him seem in a perpetual state of displeasure, pulling together tight when his face is relaxed so he frequently looks like he's scowling. How big his ears seem, protruding from his head as though they're trying to escape.

Those are just the flaws he finds in his face. He's also never been a fan of his boxed chest, small waist, but wide hips... or his chicken legs. He's never needed anyone to tell him he looked like a freak, not when he can look in the mirror and see all those things himself. And now there's a nasty purple and black and bright red bruise strained all the way across his neck and it just _kills him _inside. It's all he can ever focus on, this thing he gave himself that feels like it's never going to go away.

Almost every day, at some point going to the loo, with a nurse looking on, he'll pull down the sweatshirt they'll only sometimes let him wear, and he'll stare at and try to will it to fade faster. To disappear. He was always so good at doing that, why couldn't his imperfections? And then he wondered, if someone feels invisible enough, wouldn't that make their flaws invisible, too?

Reaching up, he tenderly presses his finger against the lower part of the mark and winces. Sam had definitely hurt him more than he let on to the nurse. Any time he moves his head or swallows, a burning heat sears through the spot around his throat, making his eyes well up. Add that to the throbbing in his hip and side, and he's basically a walking billboard for abuse.

It's there, with his hand still at his throat, that the words, not just the actions that Sam committed in that room, come back to him. Even in his despair of what was happening to him, apparently enough had managed to slip in and wiggle its way into his brain. _Dangerous_, Sam had said. Nurses whisper about the quiet boy. They call him dangerous. The realization sinks in slow, like a drawn out dose of medicine in his veins, making his whole body feel on fire.

All the little things finally seem to click into place. The way everyone goes quiet whenever he's around, the way they constantly stare at him, watching like they're waiting for something. They do it because they think he's capable of something he's never even thought of. They think he's dangerous, they think he could hurt someone.

His chest aches at the thought, breaths coming fast and shallow. He turns away from the window and sinks down to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest as the first sob escapes him. He sits like that for a long time, finding it hard to pull in air, as thick, fat tears fall down his cheeks. It's not a bad melt down, not like the one he had at the club or the hospital, but it's awful none the less. It runs deep, like it's making its way through his body digging out tiny holes where it wants to crawl in. It hurts. He thinks it'll never stop hurting. Every time he starts feeling like things might look up, life finds a way to take it all back. It feels like life will always be taking it back.

Simon doesn't go to sleep that night.

...

The following day, eyes heavy and undoubtedly black and sunken in, Simon has a small go round with one of the nurses over whether or not he should still go to group. They insist he can skip again, but after a night of restlessness, with all those thoughts of what everyone thinks of him going through his head, he knows what he has to do. And that doesn't include sitting in his room all day, watching the clock tick by. He had simply stared the nurse down despite her protests until she relented and told him she'd let the group therapist know he'd be coming in.

Everything about the day feels sluggish, from breakfast to his one on one with Doctor Lewis who, despite her best efforts of trying to get him to talk about what happened in the loo, gives up about fifteen minutes in and just scribbles away in her notebook while Simon stares at the ceiling. She still hasn't brought up his journal. Which, inherently, isn't bothering him like it was before. Not when he's got other things weighing on his mind.

The only part of group that did interest him was Doctor Lewis informing him that there'd be one less person in their group sessions from that moment on, on account of them moving facilities. She didn't give a name, of course, but it was enough to let Simon know who, and for that he was relatively relieved. At least he wouldn't have to worry about another assault if he went to the loo alone again, though he doesn't think that's a rule he'll be inclined to break again any time soon.

By the afternoon, he's in a bit of a foul mood, between the combination of being tired and his hip and throat still hurting. They'd offered him medicine at the nurses station but he had turned it down with a wave of his hand. The last thing he needed was something making him more disoriented than he already felt half the time. Apparently his mood is noticeable by the time group rolls around, as the first thing the group therapist does is ask him if he's doing okay. He nods once before scuffling across the room to an empty chair, with empty chairs beside him.

No one ever sits by him.

This notion just builds onto his already soured emotions. He scowls at the empty chairs for a moment before slipping into his seat. Simon watches as the other members from group come in, a few wheeled in, and one carried. _Freaks_, he thinks. _Like me_. Maybe he does belong here, after all? He stares at them until someone looks back, and he turns his gaze to the blue tiles of the floor. How often has his spent his days doing this, already? How many more will there be?

Nothing in today's topic of discussion interests him, not that many do. Though there has been an occasional day where something someone will say catches his attention and he'll take notice, nothing today draws him in. It's some regurgitated version of the previous days topic, a learn- to- love- yourself load of shit. He spends more time frowning than anything, trying to tune it out. When are they going to get to him so he can get this over with, release this thing that's spent all day building up inside him?

Patience used to be one of his strong points, but he appears to be lacking that as he clears his throat loudly, interrupting someone else talking. The group therapist turns to him, brows raised. "Simon?"

He glances up, blinks a few times and sits up straighter in his seat, willing himself to look bigger than he feels. Quick, he tells himself, like ripping off a plaster. Do it before he loses the courage. "I-" The word comes out in a squeak, which doesn't help his frayed nerves. Taking a deep breath, he tries again, that lump at the back of his throat slowly melting away.

"I would never hurt anyone," he tells them, voice stronger than he expected from himself. It's determined and unwavering. "I'm not... like that," he continues, looking around the room with an anxious itch at the base of his skull. They're all watching him... which was the point, really. But that doesn't stop how uncomfortable it makes him. Clearing his throat, he adds, "I do things for a reason." They go on staring until he finishes with, "That's... all I wanted to say."

The group therapist, eyes much wider than Simon can ever recall seeing, asks, "Anything else?"

Simon swallows hard and shakes his head.

"Any particular reason you felt like sharing this with the group?"

"That's all I wanted to say," he repeats, sinking back into the chair and letting his gaze go to the floor once again.

"Well," the therapist says, letting out a loud breath. "That was... what did you guys think? That was good, yes? Simon sharing with us. Good job, Simon."

It's not much, three simple words, but those three words suddenly mean the world to him. There's no reprimand for his interruption, no pressing for him to elaborate on what he meant, no chastising or judgment. There's only those three words, and even if they have their own bearings later, whether it affects whatever conversation he has with Doctor Lewis tomorrow, or it changes the way people look at him... it was worth it, he thinks. He's never had someone give him praise before.

"Good job," the therapist repeats, giving him a nod.

Simon returns a smile.

...

**And there we have it, chapter 3. As always, Chapter 4 will get posted next week as I update every Wednesday.**

**Okay, so here's the thing guys. I can see it's gotten clicked on... but I have no idea if people are even enjoying this lump of crud I piled together lol. So reviews are always accepted and welcomed, even the not nice ones. Wanna tell me that you think Simon's a stupid wanker for doing what he did to himself... have at it. Any little bit of constructive criticism helps... and reviews are like a feel good button. They let me know I don't suck.**

**As for the question I got about whether or not Lucy will be in this story. Yes, she will be. It wouldn't be Simon in the unit without her. However, as this story is set pre- community service, non of the other characters will be appearing in most of this fic. **

**Thanks as always and I'll see you next week :) **


	4. I have no reason to reason with you

**Hey guys! Sorry about not updating for a bit there, things got a little busy around here but we're back on track now :)**

**Still don't own Misfits, still loving playing in the playground.**

**A certain character in this chapter will remind you of a certain someone from our favorite show, in fact, you'll find a few characters like that in this fic. It's done for a reason that you'll find out near the end of this fic so before I get any... *this person is Nathan...* I know, it's intentional lol**

**...**

"Hey, mate, you gotta light?"

With a slight flinch, Simon glances up from his spot on the bench. Each day the patients are allowed outside for their daily dose of air and recreational activities, a means of keeping the somewhat sane around here still in their right minds. After being cooped up so long, people start to go a little crazier than usual. He wonders if that might be part of the reason someone is speaking to him, they've lost a little more of their sanity. No one's talked to him since he got here.

He stares up at this bloke who's now looking down at him, with his wild, curly hair and the large scar across his eye and upper lip, and he blinks rapidly in surprise. He maybe even questions his safety for a second as the guy takes a seat across from him and smiles.

"You one of those deaf mentals?"

Barely a minute into the conversation and he already has someone questioning him, poking at him. "No," he manages to splutter.

"All right, then. Lets try this again. Have you got a light?"

"I- I don't smoke."

"Did your voice just crack? Are you going through puberty?" He laughs, a somewhat obnoxious sound. "Classic. Hey, man, gotta do something 'round here to keep you grounded. You know where I can get some coke?"

Simon's eyes widen and he takes a quick look around to make sure no one's heard what he's just said. The last thing he needs is someone associating him with something like that. "N- no, I-"

He laughs again. "You're an easy fella to take the piss out of. Worst habit I got is right here," he says, waving the cigarette around in Simon's face. "Keeps me stress free. Except no one here that I've asked seems to have a lighter. It's bullocks. One of these nurses has got to be holding. Miss B in the cafeteria, she looks like a right chain smoker. Have to be to survive this place. Your staring's a little uncomfortable, man."

Shocked, he thinks. He's just so shocked at how much this bloke has said to him in such a short amount of time. Let alone the fact that it's him that it's being said to.

For the briefest of moments, his thoughts take him to the way his friendship with Matt first came to be, a kid he didn't know sitting down next to him at lunch, striking up a conversation, the way this guy is doing now. Of course he then thinks of how things ended with Matt and the rage that's always there, just under the surface bubbles up. Suspicion strikes like a snake and he looks up at the guy with a hard stare. "What do you want?" he asks. "Why are you talking to me?"

The guy sits back with a look of surprise. "Now there's no need for the attitude. What's up yours?" He lowers his brow, eyeing him carefully. It makes Simon uncomfortable. "You one of those bi- polar fellas this place is loaded up with?"

"No," he answers tersely.

"Well, you're looking like a right mental. Should probably get those mood swings checked out."

Simon glances down at the table and shuffles his feet against the pavement. "No one here... talks to me."

"You do look a little weird. I might have steered clear of you, too, if I wasn't wanting a smoke so bad. S' the only real reason I came over here if I'm being honest."

The taunt is a small sting to his insides. Weird is definitely not the worst of things that have been said to him. He peeks up to find the guy smiling at him and his defense lowers slightly. It doesn't feel like he's trying to be cruel to Simon, just that his mouth gets ahead of his brain.

"I'm Simon," he says suddenly, before he can stop himself, but not before he can regret doing it. He didn't ask for his name. Why did he tell him his name? Why can't he just go away?

The guy stares at him for a long moment, tilting his head ever so slightly. Then his eyes widen. "I knew it was you! You're that kid from group that tried to off himself, aren't you?"

His throat constricts. He has to remind himself to breathe. That's what he'd been working on in counseling, how to make it through the panic attacks by taking deep breaths in through his mouth, and letting it out through his nose. It was a tip from the Doctor Lewis- who he still doesn't talk to. But he takes her advice, though he'd never admit to her. He may not give anything in return, but he does listen to her. He does the breathing thing a couple times, keeping his gaze on the table until he doesn't feel so out of touch. Then he nods, slowly.

"Jesus, that's fucked up. I've heard the nurses talk about you, you know. They call you the quiet one. On account of you never talking in group, ya know? Why is that, that you don't talk? You're talking a lot now. Why'd you try and kill yourself?"

He can feel his lip twitch in annoyance. "You ask a lot of personal questions," he says, trying to keep the anger from his voice. He doesn't like anyone, especially someone he doesn't know, being in his business. This isn't just business, though. This is his life. It's not something he wants picked apart by someone he doesn't even know.

"Hey, man, just trying to make conversation."

"I... I gave you my name. You could, give me yours. I- if you want."

He waits for the no to come. To be told to fuck off. To be belittled with cruel words or maybe even a slap to the head. He braces himself for the pain to return to his chest at another rejection and he nearly hates this guy for coming over and talking to him at all, for giving him hope, making him believe that things could get better in a place like this. That maybe he could make a friend and wouldn't be so alone.

"Jack."

He looks up, blinking hard. "What?"

"Don't do that eye shit, it's creepy. Name's Jack."

Simon holds his hand out and Jack scoffs.

"I'm not here for none of that pussy hand holding shit, put that away."

He cracks a small grin and lowers his hand. "You shared in group... that you tried to kill someone."

Jack's head snaps up, eyes widening, and Simon can tell he caught him off guard- a look he feels isn't one Jack gives very often. He doesn't seem like the kind of fella easily taken by surprise. "You remember that?"

He nods. "Is that how you got..." He gestures towards Jack's face. "Your scars."

Raising his hand, Jack runs his fingers over the raised skin above his lip and smiles widely. It makes the scar stretch wide. "Ah," he points at Simon,"Now who's getting personal? I see how it is, trying to get me to talk about myself so you don't have to talk about you. Well, it ain't gonna work."

Simon shakes his head. "That's not what I was-"

Jack laughs. "I'm just fuckin' with ya, Jesus. Okay, how's bout this. I'll tell ya where these bad boys came from, and then you have to tell me why ya tried to kill yourself. Deal?"

He has to think about this for a long moment. As Jack said, he hasn't talked in group, hasn't shared why he was there, or what he'd tried to do to himself. Of course, word still gets around in a place like this, doctors and nurses talk, patients overhear. He'd heard plenty himself about the girl from group who was slowly starving herself to death. There's no real privacy.

But to really open up to someone else about everything? He knows what it could mean for himself. Peeking up at Jack, he finds himself asking, "Will you pick on me? I- if I tell you, I mean.."

"Sammy-"

"Simon."

"Simon, whatever. Is that the kind of person you take me for? A bully?" He scoffs. "I must say I'm rather offended. Hey, fatty!" He calls out to someone over Simon's shoulder. "Yeah, you with the fag. Throw me your lighter."

"What? Why?" whoever it is yells back.

"Just do it, ya big twat."

"Fucker," they call back, and a second later something comes whizzing just past Simon's head, nailing Jack in the chest.

"Good day to you, too!" he hollers, grabbing the lighter and pulling the smoke out from behind his ear. He quickly lights it and takes a deep drag, letting the smoke exit his mouth in a row of rings. Simon watches as they rise into the air, growing wider until the wind blows them apart.

Jack snaps his fingers, drawing his attention back to him. "All right, weird kid... just think of this like good 'ol group therapy. They'd be so proud of us, wouldn't they. We're gonna share."

...

"Wake up!"

He jerks awake with a start, eyes opening and staring up into the darkness just as a hand comes down hard against his mouth. His heartbeat accelerates at the spike of fear that hits him. He's heard the stories from the male patients about this place, listened to them talk about what happens when the lights go out and there's a vastly different male to female ratio about this place. Things happen in the dark. Not to mention that he's already had one bad encounter with someone here. It's enough to instantly send him into a panic.

His first instinct is to pull away, but whoever it is places a hand on his chest, as well. He's about a second away from beginning to flail when they tell him, "Calm down, mental. It's just me."

It takes a moment for his mind to register that he knows this voice. Slowly, he looks to the side of him, sight adjusted to the dark enough by this point to see Jack grinning down at him. He shakes his head a couple times in an attempt to make him let go.

"I'm only going to move my hand if you swear you won't yell."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep, exasperated breath. Jack, he's beginning to see, isn't the brightest. Instead, he nods his head and waits until Jack has taken his hands entirely off him.

"Why..." He takes another breath and lets it out in a small huff. "Why would I yell?"

Jack shrugs. "I don't know, it just sounded like the right thing to say. So, uh, anyway, hi."

Simon pushes himself up to his elbows, the fog of sleep still mildly clouding his thoughts. "What are you doing? In my room?"

"Oh, you know, figured I'd come on down here and we could have us a little slumber party. Braid each other's hair, cuddle up in bed, swap some emotional but very inspiring stories about ourselves." When Simon just stares at him dumbstruck, Jack scoffs. "Come on, Sammy-"

"Simon," he interrupts.

"Sure," he says with a wave of his hand. Then, a moment later, he's seating himself on the end of Simon's bed and propping his feet up on them. Simon manages to fight the urge to ask him to please remove them. After all, he's never had someone go out of their way to come visit with him. "So here's the thing," Jack says with a sigh. "I'm gonna need your help."

It doesn't register at first, the thought that someone needs him, the idea that someone would want his help with anything. He's confused and still finding himself suspicious and cautious with Jack's intentions. For all he knows, Jack's trying to rope him into something just to get him in trouble. "What?" he asks, sitting up the rest of the way.

"Yeah, you're going to be my wing- man."

"What?" he repeats.

There's no mistaking Jack rolling his eyes. "You know, a comrade, a fellow mate, someone to watch my back, a-"

"I- I know what a wing- man is," he cuts in. "I- I just meant, why... are you asking me?"

Jack leans back and stares at him for a moment, making Simon feel like he's being scrutinized and he shrinks back a little under the pressure of it. "We can be mates, right?" Jack asks, then. "You and me. I mean, I don't know a lot about you Sammy, but you seem trust worthy. And I'm going to go do something and that something means I need someone that I can trust there with me. That person is you, right? I can trust you?"

Now he's just nervous. Clearly wherever this is leading may not have a good outcome judging by the way Jack is talking about it, like it's something bad. Trouble. And what's worse is that he can't bring himself to say he wants no part in whatever it may be. He's too curious. Nervous and curious, and just so damn glad to have someone talking to him. "I... guess? Why?"

"Good!" he says, slapping at Simon's knee. "You're going to help me raid the med room."

"What?!" he whispers, in a not so whispering voice at all, really.

"Oh, that's good, weird- kid. Talk a little louder why don't you, I don't think they heard you down in security! Jesus fuck, keep it down!"

He hangs his head a moment and mutters an apology. Jack is quick to let it go, something he's noticing about him. He doesn't seem to hold onto things, too busy cracking on to the next thing at hand.

"Okay, you ready to hear how this goes?" Simon nods and Jack smiles. "So get this," he leans forward, like he's getting really into this, and Simon almost wants to smile. "Every Tuesday night, between midnight and one, there's a shift switch. Nurse Jackie gets replaced by Nurse Roberts. You remember her, the one who wouldn't go out of her way to give me a light? So, anyway, maybe I'm the only one who's noticed, but there's a good twenty minutes there when no one is at the desk. It's entirely empty."

Simon stares at him, saying nothing, until Jack groans. "Come on, kid. Put the pieces together, I know you're smart enough. We're going to go down there during that time switch and steal some meds. You're going to come with me and help me keep an eye out. Got it now?"

He nods, letting the idea of it sink in. He would be helping partake in something that could get them both put in solitary confinement for a few days. They talked about that place a lot in here, that room, the quiet one with the soft foam on the walls. The one they put you in when you did something _really _bad. Or when you were just too crazy to interact with others in the unit. He recalls walking past it one day, and how that big metal door had sent chills down his spine. Even the thought of ending up in there terrified him. And now here he was thinking about doing something that could get him tossed in it.

Then again, there was the other side of the coin with this situation. The one where he'd be doing something with Jack, someone who said he trusted him. Who referred to him as his mate. He asks himself if those things are really enough to make him go through with it, if he's that desperate to find a niche in this place with someone. "Okay," he says a beat later. "I'll help you."

Jack pumps his fist and makes a grunting noise, which causes him to smile. "Great! Good, thanks, mate."

Another beat, and a different thought comes to him. "There are cameras," he says slowly. "In the halls. They'll be able to see our faces. We'll get caught!"

"All right now, spazz, down a notch. Already got that covered." Jack pulls a hood up over his head from his sweater and grins at him. "Lets go play ninjas."

…...

He has to admit, the prospect of doing this act sounded much better back in his room, and sounds terrible now that he's actually creeping down the hall doing it. Jack, however, seems to have none of those thoughts, as he stays ducked and sprinting down the hall, only looking over his shoulder every so often to make sure Simon is behind him and indeed still following. This was only after he stopped a few times and tried to make up excuses to go back to his room.

Simon's never been one for acting out of turn, for acting out at all, really. He got detention once for forgetting his homework and had carried on to his parents for a good two weeks about how sorry he was until they were telling him that they didn't care what he did wrong if he would just stop that. It was probably true, too. They so little paid attention to him at all that he probably could have gotten away with more, if that pesky thing known as his conscious wasn't always sneaking up on him. His sister always said he had a superhero complex, the need to always do good. He couldn't say he disagreed with her.

He spends the rest of the way to their destination thinking he shouldn't have done this.

Getting caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't notice when Jack stops before rounding a corner and he slams into him. Jack groans and turns around. "You're really working at getting us caught, aren't ya?"

"We'll probably get caught anyway," he mutters.

"With that sort of attitude, sure!" He rolls his eyes and faces forward again. "Just take it easy, kid. Nurse Jackie's getting ready to leave. No one else is around. We got this."

Simon holds his breath, chest tightening a bit as he waits for what happens next. He has to stop himself from crying out when Jack leaves him there, bounding out from their spot against the wall. Simon rushes forward, stopping just at the edge of the corner and catching Jack's feet as he falls over the counter. He bites back a small laugh as Jack pokes his eyes over the counter and gives him a thumbs up. Then he's turning around and heading towards the open med room. He looks over his shoulder one more time before slipping inside.

It's hard for Simon to recall the last time his adrenaline was pumping this hard. The night he went to burn down Matt's house, perhaps? All he knows is he's fighting the urge to cheer Jack on. Which could be why he loses track of the job he was supposed to be doing, and is suddenly hearing someone call out, "Hey! What are you doing in there? Hey!"

Jack comes scrambling out of the room like a mad man, pillowcase in his hand and a panic in his eyes. He and Simon simultaneously look down the hall to find Nurse Roberts rushing down the hall towards them, as fast as her short legs will carry her. Jack looks back at Simon, looking like a deer in the headlights.

"Come on!" Simon whisper- yells, waving him over.

Jack gives Nurse Roberts one more look before jumping/falling over the counter. His lanky legs seem to trip him up a bit as he struggles to his feet, reminding Simon of a giraffe. He rushes towards Simon, that freaked out expression on his face, until he's reaching out and grabbing hold of him, dragging him along. Simon nearly falls over himself.

"Stop!" Someone yells out from behind them.

"Stellar wing-man skills!" Jack hisses at him, continuing to pull him along. Simon manages to look down long enough to see the pillowcase and notice that it's making a rattling sound.

"You stole a pillowcase of pills?!" he all but cries.

"Maybe," Jack retorts. "Now's not the time for lectures, fail look- out."

Guards are close behind them, Simon can hear their keys rattling as they run to catch up. Thankfully he and Jack manage to stay ahead long enough to crash into his door and rush inside.

"Take your hood off, take your hood off!" Jack breathes out, tugging at it. Simon rushes to pull it off. "Okay, get in bed!"

"What about you?"

"Sheets are long enough to hide me under it. Hurry up!" He pushes Simon towards the bed and Simon barely has time to blink before Jack's disappeared. He's good, Simon thinks, rushing to climb into bed as he hears boots approaching outside his door. There's only a beat between him getting under the covers and facing the wall and the door to his room opening. He tightens his legs around the sweat shirt tucked between his knees and does his best to slow his breathing so it looks like he's asleep.

He cringes a bit as the footsteps come into the room, and holds his breath as they get closer to the bed.

"Think we got him," someone out in the hall calls.

Simon's brows pinch together as he turns over in his head the idea that they possibly found someone else going to commit the same crime. Or maybe just being out of bed and about at the wrong time? Either way, a few seconds later the footsteps lead away from the bed, the door shuts, and his room is shrouded in darkness once more. Simon tremors under his sheets, turning onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. It's another good ten minutes before Jack even crawls out from under the bed. When he pokes his head over the edge and whispers a "boo," Simon jumps and curses at him.

"Well, that's no way to talk to a friend you nearly got put in permanent solitary, now is it?" Jack slowly pulls himself up to a standing position and plops down on the edge of Simon's bed with a sigh. "So that was fun. And by fun I mean I don't think I'm going to invite you on another outing again. But, I think it was still worth it this once."

"Do you think they'll figure out it was us?"

Jack waves his hand dismissively. "They're all a bunch of stupid twats. It's doubtful. But if they do, I can always just say it was all your idea and get slack on the punishment." At Simon's wide, panicked expression, he laughs. "Still just as gullible. Good to know. I'll have a lot of fun with you, I'm guessing."

Simon shakes his head. "I can't... believe we did that," he breathes out. "W- what are you going to do with all those pills?"

He smiles and taps his chin a couple times. "Well, we do share a ward with the addicts... could always sell 'em off and make a buck. Or," he draws the word out, "I can just hold on to 'em myself and take 'em as I see fit so I can get a good high going. Suppose it would work real well during group or therapy, be too zoned out to have to listen to all that wank."

"I thought, you said you only smoke."

"Pills don't count, man."

Simon nods like the notion somehow makes sense to him.

"Well, anyhow, it's been interesting but I have to say it's time for this stealthy bastard to take his prizes and get to bed. Catch ya on the outside, kid." Jack gives his knee a final, parting pat, before standing up from the bed and tip-toeing across the room.

"Jack," he finds himself calling out before he can bite the words down. He turns around to look at him. "Thanks," Simon tells him quietly. "For-"

"No problem," Jack cuts in. "What'r mates for and all that jazz." He gives him a smile, that scar stretching over the skin once more and Simon thinks, would never say, he knows, that he finds Jack nice to look at. Jack wears his imperfection proudly, without shame, and he admires that. Wishes he had that himself.

Light fills the room for the briefest of moments as Jack slowly opens the door and slips outside his room. Then he's alone again, except... just this once, it doesn't feel so lonely.

…...

Jack is his mate.

Simon says it to himself a lot, turns the words over in his head, tastes it on his tongue when the moments are tough and he smiles. It feels good, having Jack. Having someone. He and Jack hang out during meals and in the rec room, outside when it's not pissing down. And they talk, a lot.

Jack tells him that it was a fight that brought him here, a scuffle with his mom's abusive boyfriend, in fact.

"The fucker stabbed me in the face with my own knife," Jack tell him. "I got me mum in the middle of it all, screaming her arse off and pleading with me to stop and shit, so I listened. Bad idea that was. Soon as I drop the knife and walk away, that arsehole picked it up and charged me. Lucky he missed my eye so I could finish him off."

Jack has no problem giving out the gruesome details of what he did to the guy in return. "Put him in the hospital, I did," he informs him. Originally they were going to arrest him, but his mom managed to get him a plea. He was deemed mentally unstable and they sent him to the unit. "Twenty seven stitches," he tells Simon. "And I don't regret it one. fucking. bit." He smiles and the scar stretches and Simon can see that it's true, can feel it. But it doesn't scare him. He thinks, if Jack wanted to hurt him, he could, but he hasn't. Simon gets the feeling, trusts it enough, that Jack wouldn't.

It takes some time, but Simon finally musters up the courage and tells him everything about Matt, not just the minor stuff they'd shared during the first conversation they had. These talks go deeper than that. He tells him things he wouldn't have expected to, about all the bad things Matt said and did, about his suicide attempt- that's the hardest thing to talk about. But Jack listens and makes comments here and there, calling Matt a pussy or a twat, making Simon feel better about the whole mess. He even threatens to beat his ass when they finally leave their unit prison.

He finds comfort in Jack, even when he's being his loud, obnoxious self... or calling him by the wrong name. Because Jack shows he cares in his own ways, like getting the group therapist off his back by referring to him as a cock-loving fucker whenever he picks on Simon to talk during group therapy. On even better days, he saves him the green Jello on Jello day because he remembers it's his favorite.

He thinks Jack's lonely, too. Though he knows it's not something he'd ever share with him. They talk, but there are no teary confessions, no sentimental comments. Jack is Jack, and Simon is Simon, and they're very different, but a lot the same, and that's okay.

And sure, sometimes Jack's a right pain in the ass but, to Simon, he's someone he can look to when it feels like the whole world is going to fall in on him.

Jack is always there when Simon needs him... until one day he's not.

Suicide, the halls whisper. They echo with the words.

He's coming out of therapy, just walking out of therapy when he hears it. The kid with the scar on his face had some pills stashed in his room, whole bunch of them. They found him on the floor, puked everywhere, eyes wide open.

He stands outside Jack's room and he thinks to himself, _it isn't right. It's not right. It can't be right. _Jack's body is brought out on a stretcher, buried beneath a sheet too white and Simon has to muster all the strength he has not to ask them to take it off, to let him see. He half-contemplates tearing it off himself. It's strange to him, this bubbling rage that takes over, the stabbing ache in his chest that makes him want to scream until his lungs shatter and tear down the walls around him. That make him want to march into that room and scoop up whatever's left of the carnage and ingest it himself. To feel what Jack felt. To feel something himself.

Because before the anger and pain even has time to settle, the numb wraps itself around him, as well. He gets sick with it all. Throws up, a lot. He wants to cry but doesn't. Beats his legs 'til they bruise instead and lies awake at night wondering why.

He wonders how he didn't know, how he couldn't just see it. Jack always looked happy... alive. He acted as though nothing could touch him, like he were invincible. Simon wonders if anyone could see the pain on his face when things were as bad as they were for him, or if he had just learned to hide it as well as Jack did. Mostly he just asks why.

The answers never come.

Simon's paper cardboard riddled with holes. He's alone all over again, truly alone. The silence seeps back in until he's sure he's so quiet he's disappeared from the world

...

**So, yeah, hope that was all right. **

**Leave some love, please :) **


	5. Nothing like the pain I feel for you

**Hey guys! Maybe if I wish hard enough I could own Simon? Until then, I don't own Misfits or its characters. Just playing in the playground.**

**I'll see you at the bottom :)**

**...**

"We have someone new joining group today." Doctor Jacobs, as Simon's finally come to know him as- their group therapist- his voice sounds so loud in the quiet of the room. "Everyone, say hello to Lucy."

A chorus of greetings ring out around him. Simon says nothing, however, doesn't even look up from his lap. He's staring at the tiles, finding patterns in the lines and squares. He's thinking about Jack, and the visit he had with his parents the other day. They'd come to drop off some clothing and toothpaste. That was what they told him was their reason for visiting. Not that they missed him, not that they wanted to see him, just... basic hygiene necessities. They hadn't even stayed that long.

He thinks of how sad his mum looked, and the way his dad had droned on and on about cooperating with the staff, not being so difficult by refusing to talk. He didn't tell them about Jack. When he asked why Rebecca wasn't there, they'd told him she has said she didn't want to come. He hasn't heard from her since he yelled at her in the hospital.

He wonders if she hates him.

When they left, his mum had hugged him, hugged him very tight. She whispered in his ear about being good and that they'd come back and see him soon.

It's been over a week, he hasn't heard a word.

Doctor Lewis keeps trying to talk to him about losing his friend. If he could really consider him that. He dislikes the idea that a friend could leave another friend behind like Jack did to him. When Simon had gone to kill himself, he had no friends, no one to say goodbye to or that would really miss him when he was gone. No one but family would have come to his funeral, and even that would have been a stretch outside the people he already lived with. He doubt many people but them would have showed up.

He wishes he could have attended Jack's.

Simon wonders why he cares so much, and tries to make it so he doesn't. He has all these thoughts and feelings and they're stewing inside him, driving together, meshing and spreading apart through his whole body. He feels a physical pain sometimes, when his emotions are strong. Like a jab to the gut or a heavy ache in his chest. He tries so hard to shut it off.

It's worked a lot better lately, him learning to feel nothing. Like right now as he listens to someone from group, a girl, cry about how ugly and fat she is. A prick of anger bubbles up in him so strongly that he contemplates telling her that she really is an ugly slag and would she please just shut up.

"Will you please just shut up!"

His head jerks up strongly, his eyes widening. Did the words leave his mouth? Did he say that out loud? He does a quick scan of the room, finding that no one's eyes are focused on him. So who? He follows the stares until his sight locks on someone he doesn't recognize.

"Lucy," Doctor Jacbos says, her name sounding a reprimand. "That was very rude, apologize."

The girl with her brown hair hanging down in her face fidgets in her seat. "S-sorry. I'm sorry."

Her apologies fall on deaf ears as the girl she's just spoken out of turn to starts to cry, loudly. Her ear piercing's wails make Simon cringe and sink down further in his seat. If that's not enough, the girl tries to talk while she's crying, but the only sounds that come out are half blubbered words. This is worse for him than being forced to listen to her talk. This noise is like nails on a chalkboard for him. Yet there's nothing he can do but sit and endure it. If he leaves, he gets in trouble and will be forced to sit in therapy longer.

He wishes the girl had just stayed quiet. He would have stayed quiet. Anything he wants to say, he says in his head. It's just easier that way. His mouth pulls into a deep scowl and his eyebrows lower. He's glaring at this new girl... Lucy. He doesn't even know her, but he's irritated with her. He gets the overwhelming urge to tell her this is all her fault.

Almost as if she were able to hear the thoughts turning in his mind, she raises her head and looks directly at him. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of her. She's pale white, like porcelain, her skin stretched so thin across her face he can see the blue veins in her cheeks. And her eyes? She has a blank stare, unblinking, like she's staring into some part of him he hasn't been able to find himself. They're so dark he can't see where her pupils end and the color begins.

A chill rolls up his spine. He tells himself to look away, to let his gaze fall back on his lap so he can try to pretend he wasn't caught with his eyes locked on hers, but he stays like that. Stays staring at her. As he does this, recognition dawns on him, the realization of why he's suddenly so fascinated by this girl he doesn't know.

Something about her frightens him.

And when she raises her hand and waves at him and he unconsciously shivers, he finally manages to look away.

...

He's having a bad day. The week hasn't been much better, but today was worse. Rebecca finally came to see him and they got into an argument. The conversation had started out well enough, as pleasant as one could expect sitting in the confines of a room with people watching in on you to make sure you're not going to do something crazy. They talked about how each other had been, the events happening outside the place. Well, Rebecca did most of the talking. He sat there for a while staring at the table and fidgeting his legs as she droned on about a new boy at school she liked.

Then came the topic he was hoping to avoid: his suicide attempt. She wanted to talk to him about it, and, of course, he hadn't wanted to say anything at all. He told her that it wasn't really her business, and she ended up yelling a lot and calling him a selfish twat. She left a lot earlier than he had expected her to.

He's replayed their fight nearly all day and, if that wasn't enough, when he went to therapy, all Doctor Lewis wanted to do was talk about the visit. When he wouldn't say anything about it, she reprimanded him. Twice he'd gotten his arse handed to him and it's put him in a right foul mood.

A couple hours ago they were given their daily free time, told they could go do as they pleased for a little while, and he's been sitting in the rec room for the past hour on the couch they have there, thinking about everything. He stares at the dark screen of the television as he does so. He thought about turning it on but decided he'd rather sit in the quiet. Everyone else is outside and he's the only one there. It's comforting for him, being alone right now. It's funny how things have started to change in that way. The longer he's here, the more bad things that happen to him, the more closed off he's becoming.

Suddenly the sound of feet shuffling against the floor and into the room catches his attention. When the noise stops, the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He slows his breathing and carefully turns his head a fraction, trying to see over his shoulder. He can't, of course, but his body is hyper aware there's someone there. He takes a deep breath and goes back to staring at the blank screen, waits for whoever it is to leave.

"Hi."

He jumps and lets out a small squeak, becoming embarrassed as Lucy shit's into his line of vision.

Her head is ducked, but she raises her hand and repeats hello.

He can't look at her. She makes his skin tingle and his nerves dance. He stares at his lap and pretends to pick stuff off his pants, fidgeting his feet, wondering why she makes him feel so anxious. "H-hi."

She inches closer and he tenses. "I, um, it's rather chilly outside."

He nods.

"I thought I'd come in for a bit before they call off free time. Can I... would you mind if I sat with you?"

He says nothing, but slowly slides over on the couch. She carefully closes the distance and gently seats herself as far away from him as she can get, on the edge of the couch. He can feel her eyes on him so he glances over.

"I'm Lucy," she tells him.

"I know."

She smiles a little. "That's right, you already knew that on account of group. Sometimes I forget... you're so quiet. You're Simon?"

He nods again.

"What are you doing in here?"

There's no way to answer this question without talking. It's as though she made sure of this. He sighs. "Watching the telly."

Her eyebrows pinch together and she looks at the screen than back at him. "It's not on."

"I know."

She giggles, a soft sound that makes his heart skip. "You're strange."

"I know."

"Me, too," she replies, looking down at the floor. "Maybe we could be strange together? J-just for now. I could sit here with you and watch nothing on the telly... if you don't mind." She peeks up at him.

His eyes dance back and forth as he stares at her a moment before mumbling, "I- I don't mind."

Her smile grows and she moves back on the couch, settling in. Her eyes travel to the black screen and she sighs.

His nerves slowly calm with each passing minute until the awkward silence doesn't feel so awkward anymore. In fact, it's almost comfortable.

He might even like it a little.

...

He meets her outside. Well, trips over her. It's his fault, really. He isn't paying attention to where he's going, opting to stare out at the yard and the people out there. Some of them are sitting in groups talking to one another and Simon envies them for a second for having that. Sometimes he thinks he's okay with having no one in here to be friends with, what with how his last friendship went. But other times all it does it remind him singled out he is, like now, and he wishes someone would just talk to him.

It's those distractions that 'cause the next chain of events, his foot catching on something. He finds himself flying forward, knees slamming into the ground when he comes down. Sharp pains shoot through his legs and he hisses through his teeth before turning over with a pained moan. In his line of vision, he sees Lucy scrambling towards him with wide, panicked- looking eyes, her mouth opened in a shocked O.

"I'm so sorry," she cries out, gently reaching for him.

He pulls his legs back and swallows hard. "It's fine. I'll be fine." He takes a deep breath before asking, "W- what were you doing on the ground?"

She ducks her head with an embarrassed smile. "I was... drawing." She points behind her towards the doors and he spots a notebook.

"Why not sit on one of the benches?"

She looks up at him, eyes dancing back and forth in a scrutinizing manner that makes him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. "I prefer being lower to the ground when I draw. I get a better view of things."

"Oh." Such a master of words, he thinks with a small shake of his head.

"Did you..." Lucy glances at the ground, her hair falling in a curtain around her face before she peeks up at him. "Would you like to see them? M- my drawings, I mean. You don't have to if you don't want to. I- they're not all that good." She lets out a huff of air. "Oh, why did I even ask? N- never mind, I-"

"I'd like that," he interjects.

Lucy stops talking and fully looks up at him, eyes widened, something he's already becoming accustomed to seeing. "Really?" she asks, and he wonders how a voice can sound so hopeful and small at the same time. When he nods, she gives him the tiniest smile. "Okay. Wait-" She says before they can move.

He looks at her alarmed. "What?"

"Your knee. Is it... will you be okay?"

He'd nearly forgotten, but the reminder almost seems to bring back the sting. He gives Lucy a quick glance before pulling up the leg of his joggers. A small twinge of humility strikes as he stares down at his very pale skin. It makes the torn skin and splatters of blood look worse than the wound probably is.

"Oh, no!" Lucy breathes out. "You're hurt."

"It's fine," he mumbles. "Just a small scrape."

"Want to go down to the nurses station?"

He quickly shakes his head. If he were going o be honest with Lucy, he'd think to tell her that he could have his arm ripped off at the elbow, and even then he'd still insist on not going to the nurses station. Instead he tells her, "I'll be all right, thanks." Pulling the leg down, he motions toward the wall and then slides over until his back is against it.

Lucy slowly crawls over to him and grabs her notebook, turning around to situate herself beside him. "Okay," she says with a sigh, her leg somewhat knocking into his.

Swallowing hard, he watches as she opens the book to the first page. It takes a moment to realize that the sharp inhale was his own as he stares down at the picture.

"I drew it the first day I got her," she tells him quietly. "While I was in the van waiting to be brought in."

His eyes roam the details of the page, her drawing of the institute they currently reside in so realistic it sends a chill down his spine. It's an eerie picture. Haunting, almost. Too real. "It's... it's very good," he says, looking to her. "You're very talented."

She ducks her head with what he assumes is an embarrassed smile and mumbles a thank you. It clear she's not used to receiving compliments. But then, neither is he.

"Would you like to show me the rest?"

She bobs her head enthusiastically and quickly turns the page. And they do this for a while, go through the book, lapse on the conversation. It's quiet and nice. Nicer than Simon would have expected. Nicer than he's used to. Every so often he'll make an idle comment about a particular drawing, or point to ones that he likes most. He even gathers up the courage to ask her for one he liked more than the others, and Lucy is more than eager to tear the page out, fold it up, and give it to him.

"This is the nicest thing anyone's ever given me," he tells her with a half smile. "Your work is really good."

She smiles. "What about you?"

"What?"

"Well, I mean... what are you good at?"

"Oh." His gaze goes to his hands in his lap and he shrugs. "Nothing, really."

"That can't be true. Surely there's something?"

"I know how to... edit videos," he says slowly. Then, remembering where they're at adds, "Except I can't show you. They took my phone." He frowns at the thought and releases a heavy sigh."

"Something else, then?" she presses.

It takes a moment for him to come up with something. "I- I'm kind of good at remembering lines from movies."

"Oh, could you show me? Please?"

He smiles at her glee- like response. "Um, all right. Name a movie."

Lucy's lower lip pushes out into the smallest of pouts. "I can't think of any. I don't really watch much telly."

"Ah, um... that's okay. M- maybe some other time? I think break is almost up, anyway."

"It never seems very long, does it?" she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking over at him.

"No," he agrees. It seems like their two hours of free time gets shorter every day. He wonders how well it would bode for his mental health if they ever stopped getting free time at all and almost cringes at the thought.

"Maybe," Lucy says, bringing his attention back to her. "Maybe we could... meet up again tomorrow. Together, I mean. Like hang out."

"I got that," he answers with a half smile.

"Right. Right, of course you did. Sorry, I'm so shit at this. Trying to make friends, you know? Oh, who am I kidding! Of course you don't know. I bet you're great at making new friends."

"I'm not," he answers firmly, a small bite in his voice he didn't expect to be there. "Sorry," he's quick to add at the sight of Lucy's surprised expression. "I just meant, I- I'm sure I'm not much better."

"But... you're so nice." She says it with this look on her face that digs into his gut, like it's the most truthful thing in the world to her. With a voice that says because she thinks it, it must be true. It stings more than he would have expected, the reminder that being nice means nothing. "I'd like to hang out with you again," he replies instead. "Tomorrow if you'd like."

She seems to forget all about the conversation they were just having, something he's grateful for. "Okay," she says, nearly beaming. 'Tomorrow, same spot?"

Simon nods just as the whistle blows, calling off their free time for the day. Lucy hurries to her feet, notebook tucked up her arm. "Bye, Simon."

"Goodbye, Lucy," he answers with a tiny smile, and in the time it takes him to stand up, she's gone.

For once, the absence doesn't feel so lonely. Still, it takes a few minutes for his brain to catch up and be convinced that what just happened was real. The paper still folded in his hand and the sting on his knee are proof enough of that.

And he's happy for it. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

...

It's like Jack, he thinks one day, sitting outside with Lucy in the yard. This sun is shining, a rare thing, so everyone is outside enjoying it. People are running around and playing ball and throwing a frisbee, calling out and being loud and acting free. There's even laughter, something he nearly forgot the sound of, it's been so long. It surprises him more to find it's Lucy who's laughing.

Simon lowers his head and looks across where he sits to catch the next row of giggles that escape her. The infectiousness of it makes him smile. "What?"

She points to his trousers. "There are ants crawling on you."

Sure enough, looking down, he catches sight of a small ant army making their way up his leg. He lets out a tiny high- pitched noise at the back of his throat, causing Lucy to laugh harder as he hurriedly brushes them off. He may like bugs, but he's not a fan of having them on him. One time when he was little, a boy next door had found a Gardner snake and chased him around the yard with it and he got so scared he spent the rest of the day throwing up. When he looks back up to Lucy, the absurdity of it all catches up with him and he finds himself laughing, too.

It's foreign at first, like the re- learning an old skill you haven't used in a quite a long time. It's been so long since he's even wanted to make such a sound. And it feels good, natural. Maybe this was what he'd been missing?

Lucy comes down with her fit of giggles with a heavy sigh. "This is good," she says, tilting her head back. The sunlight on her pale skin makes the blue veins dance behind her eyes. He finds it pretty. "Things feel okay right now," she adds.

And it hits him, the thought of Jack. The way this felt like that. It's comfortable and comforting, it's stability. He remembers the whispers of Jack's death, then. Stability didn't last. Jack didn't last. What if this were to become that? A small surge of fear bubbles in his chest as he looks at Lucy. Almost as if she senses the sudden change in his demeanor, she lowers her head to catch his stare.

"Simon?"

"What are you in here for?" he blurts out.

Lucy pinches her brow, leaning back. "What?"

"In the unit," he clarifies. "Why are you in the unit."

Lucy raises her shoulders up and forward, like she's trying to curl into herself. "S- Simon, where's this coming from?"

This definitely isn't going as well as it did with Jack. "I just want to know," he tells her. "You can tell me about you. I.. I could tell you about me."

She seems to hunch further into herself. "I- I don't think so," she quietly replies.

He thinks of Jack again, of their first conversation and how it went. He tries to use that to make more of a connection. "Come on. I can even go first."

From beneath her eyelashes, Lucy glances up at him, her upper lip curling toward her nose. She gives him a look that all but knocks the air out of him. It's dark and nearly menacing. "I said no." She bites out, each word slow and clear, in a voice that doesn't even sound like her own. The shock of how different she seems just then makes him quick to nod in agreement. "Sorry," she says a beat later, her features returning to normal. "I just... I'm not comfortable talking about it."

He swallows hard. "Okay." He thinks he'd never ask again if this is the kind of reaction he'd recieve. It's left him a little shaken, a little more cautious. Maybe this isn't like Jack at all. It's different.

Darker.

He looks to Lucy with her face tilted into the sun smiling and he knows it can't be a good thing by how disturbed he feels just now... and how the thrumming heave of his heart slamming into his chest almost excites him.

...

She's sitting alone, that's the first thing he notices as he enters the cafeteria. The second thing he registers is the notebook in front of her that she's got her face pressed close to, looking deep in concentration.

He stands there for a few minutes shifting on his feet as the slop on his plate grows cold. As though she can sense his presence in the room, she looks up and directly at him, smiles shyly, and waves him over.

His feet are heavy against the floor as he walks across the room with his head down, not wanting to acknowledge anyone in the room that's asked him to sit with them before that he's said no to. Like the crazy- eyed girl that walks over to where Lucy is sitting and takes a seat across from her.

Simon stops where he's at and swallows hard. He starts looking for a new table, but his attention goes back to Lucy, who's now leaning across the table, her face close to the other girls. Lucy's mouth is moving, she's saying something to her. He wishes he could hear what it is. This thought intensifies as he watches the girl quickly rise from the table and rush off crying.

Lucy catches his stare and her lip curves up in a half smile as she waves him over once more.

He hurries the rest of the way over and sets his tray on the table, hurriedly sliding into the seat. "What did you say to her?"

Lucy blinks fast and clears her throat. "Oh, nothing, really. Girl stuff."

"But she was crying."

She shrugs. "She gets emotional easy, you know what it is. We've both had to deal with her in group."

"Yeah, but what did you say?"

"Just leave it alone, Simon," she replies, lowering her eyes.

He shifts uncomfortably and glances at the notebook in front of her, figures changing the subject is a good idea. "What's that?"

Lucy runs her finger over the page and turns the book around to give him a better look. It takes him a moment to register what he's seeing. When it does click, his eyes widen and his mouth drops open a bit. He looks up at her. "That's me!"

She's sketched him. There on her white page, his own face stares back at him. The detail she's put into it is curiously frightening. She's drawn him perfectly, in a way that makes him feel as though he were looking at a photograph of himself. He drinks everything in.

"It's what I see when I look at you," she says quietly.

His eyes fall on his drawn self's forehead, to the scar she included. He runs his finger across it and almost unconsciously his hand flies up to his own forehead where he smooths his hair down over the mark.

"I- I wanted to include everything," she tells him. "But I can take that out if it bothers you."

"N- no. It's fine. This is a good drawing."

"Good thing I didn't draw your neck bruises, too, huh?"

There's a punched in gut feeling as he jerks his head up to look at her. "What?"

She blinks a rapidly. "Oh, I... I didn't mean anything bad by it. Honest. You can hardly tell anymore, really."

She's lying. He doesn't even have to look at her wide, nervous stare to tell. It may no longer be red and purple and raw, but it's still just as bad. He still spends every day taking a look at it. The colors have now faded into an ugly green and yellow that make him look like he has a skin disease of some sort. The t-shirts he's usually en forced to wear in this place make it impossible to cover up, on top of that, and so he's sure that people are always staring.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "I shouldn't- you never talk about it so-"

"You don't talk about why you're here," he points out. "But I don't make comments about you." He can't keep the anger from his voice. He's hurt and embarrassed by having his flaws brought up so flippantly.

He glances around, licks his lips and tells her, "I, um, I think I'm going to go back to my room."

"What? You haven't even eaten!"

He shakes his head. "I'm not very hungry anymore." Pushing himself up from the table, he slides from his seat.

"Simon." She goes to grab his wrist and he shakes her off.

"I'll see you later," he tells her, turning and walking away.

The entire walk back to his room, he makes sure to keep his hands pressed over his neck.

...

He's restless. There's a weight on his chest and a tightness in his bones. It was lights out hours ago, and he's been awake, lying in the dark, tossing and turning as his thoughts race. He can't stop replaying the fight he had with Lucy mere hours ago. It's like a pounding at the front of his head, every word that was spoken, the way it made him feel. He can't sleep because of it.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he sits up from the bed and lets the covers fall away from his body. The cold air nips at his skin and goose bumps rise, a small shiver rolling down his spine. It was blistering hot under his sheets, yet it's freezing outside them.

That's how it is in this place... there is no middle ground. Everything is not enough or too much.

He gets up from the bed, carefully walking across his room to the small dresser in the corner where he pulls out a shirt and slips it on. He does everything as silently as possible. When lights are out, no one is supposed to be up from their beds, it's against the rules. He'll get privileges taken away if they catch him, more than likely they'd take away his free time outside or in the rec room. He'd be forced to sit in his room most of the day.

This really isn't something he sees as much of a punishment, though. He would handle it just fine, without any complaint. However, losing privileges also means spending longer in therapy discussing ones bad behavior, and that's the last thing he wants. He manages to make it half way back to his bed, having been quiet as can be, when the need to take a piss strikes. He nearly curses his own body.

There are a lot of things wrong with the unit, a lot of things he's found that bother them. But none nearly as much as not having a loo in their rooms. It's one of his biggest complains. It's the middle of the night and he's half asleep, and still in a sour mood over what happened earlier. The last thing he wants to have to do is alert one of the nurses that he's awake so they can guide him down the hall to the men's room.

With a cemented scowl on his face, he shuffles to the door and opens it a crack. There's a single light at the end of the hallway, but the rest is shrouded in darkness. He peers down the end- to one of the many nurses station they've got in this place and calls out, "Hello." He waits a minute for someone to respond and, when no one does, he calls out again. The result is the same, there's no answer back.

He goes over the rules in his head: _when one is looking for a nurse but there isn't around is to go back to your room and try again in a little while, eventually someone will be there_. However, his bladder is screaming at him, so waiting doesn't feel like much of an option. Even the reminder of what's happened to him in the loo once before isn't the greatest of deterrence. He's reached that point where he's tired of caring, really.

As he steps out of his room, something crinkles beneath his feet, drawing his attention the floor. He moves his foot and stares down curiously at the piece of paper sitting there. Taking another look around, he bends down and picks it up, quickly pulling it open. He inhales sharply at the picture of himself, the one from earlier that Lucy drew. It would appear she set it outside his door for him to find.

His eyes go to the top of the page, to the drawing's forehead, where he notices that the scar that was there before has been erased. Lucy removed it. His heart jumps as he wonders if this is her way of apologizing. It feels like an apology. He wouldn't really know. No one's ever said sorry for hurting him. He folds the paper up carefully and tucks it into his shirt pocket, and plans on finding her tomorrow to sort things out.

With another look around, he steps fully outside his room and shuts the door behind him as quietly as he can, before taking off down the hallway as fast as his legs will carry him. He's grateful that he hasn't gotten caught as he slips inside the men's room. He can't stop looking around anxiously as he relieves himself, like Sam will somehow appear out of one of the dark corners of the room and attack him again. He's in a different loo than where the first incident happened, but it doesn't make things less unnerving. It isn't until washing his hands that he notices how hard they were shaking.

A few minutes later, passing by the shower stalls on his way out, he stops at a noise coming from inside one of them. He moves over to it carefully, hands starting to quiver again as he reaches out and touches the door. He takes one deep breath before shoving it open.

"What the fuck?"

He jumps back at the harsh yell and his skin flushes. The door slams shut and he lets out a small giggle of uncomfortable embarrassment. He's just caught one of the other male patients having a wank.

"Can't a guy tug one out in peace? Jesus," the guy complains.

"We have rooms," Simon tells him.

"Hey, how's bout you mind your own fucking business and get the fuck out of here before I tell everyone in group just how much a pervert you are."

He frowns, his skin prickling at the insult. He contemplates saying something back but, like the coward he is, decides to leave instead. He even thinks about alerting one of the nurses, but remembers he's out of his room, too, and will get in just as much trouble. He practically tip toes down the halls, looking over his shoulder every couple minutes and counting the numbers on the door so he'll know when he's close to his own.

It's as he's walking past the rec room that the sound of someone crying catches his attention and makes him stop. The room is pitch black, so he can't see who it might be, but judging by the pitch, it's a girl. And someone else breaking the rules of being out of bed after lights out. He thinks to himself that he picked a good night to be out of his room. He starts to walk towards the door and his heart races a little faster. He takes another look around before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

The crying stops as he shuts the door behind him and he slows his breathing. It's impossible to see anything, but considering how many times he's been in the room, he already knows where everything is. He moves forward and calls out a soft, "Hello."

"Simon?"

His heart leaps. "Lucy?"

He side steps around one of the end tables until he's made it to the couch and he's finally able to make out a persons silhouette. He doesn't need any light to know it's Lucy. She's the only girl in the unit who wears her hair hanging down around her face like a curtain. "W- what are you doing in here?"

"I should ask you the same," she retorts, sniffling.

"You're crying. Why are you crying?"

She sniffles again. "Like you care. Go away, Simon."

He flinches at her icy tone, but wills himself to stay cemented where he stands, to not run away. "That's not true. I do care, Lucy."

"Oh, yeah? What about earlier? What about how you snapped at me?"

A heavy sigh escapes him and he sink down on the couch, facing her. "I- the comment you made, about my neck bruises... it hurt me."

"I said I was sorry!"

He grimaces. "I know. I know you did. I- I'm guess I'm bad at..." He takes a deep breath. "No one's ever apologized to me before. For anything. No one's ever been sorry for the things they've said or done to me. I don't know how to... handle it."

She says nothing in return, stays quiet as a mouse.

"Lucy?"

"Sorry. I heard you. Just... I think that's the most I've ever heard you say at one time. About how you feel... I mean. Like I said earlier, you don't..." She trails off with a sniffle and he can feel her picking at the edge of the couch.

"You know, the average person says about fifteen thousand words a day." He looks around the darkness of the room and chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment before letting out a small sigh. "I always- I wonder if that can be true. I used to go whole days without saying one word."

Her picking at the couch stops. "That's... sort of depressing."

He shrugs. "There wasn't anyone to talk to anyway. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me. I- I like hearing your voice."

Her words sit between them as silence takes over. He doesn't know what to say. The last compliment he received was from a girl he liked when he was nine. She said he had pretty eyes. This feels different from that, however. This is an admission that feels like more.

His body stiffens when Lucy slides close to him, so close that their legs are pressed tight together and her bare arm is touching his. He holds his breath, heart slamming in his chest when her head comes to rest on his shoulder. They sit there like that and he wonders how its possible for silence to sound so loud. Surely she can hear his heart beating? It sounds deafening to his own ear.

"Simon?"

"Hm?"

His whole body heats when Lucy's breath hits his neck. He feels like a wound up spring, coiled too tightly.

"Are you still mad at me about earlier?"

The thoughts in his head are fuzzy. He can hardly even recall what he was mad about. Letting out a heavy breath, he tells her, "No."

"Good." He can almost hear the smile in her voice. "Simon?"

"Yeah?"

"I really like you," she whispers.

He swallows hard and turns his head, finds her dark eyes staring up at him. "What are we doing?" he asks, has to ask, because it's never been like this before. He's never felt anything burn so intensely that it scares him down to his bones. Liking Lucy is terrifying. Not liking her, he's beginning to understand, might be worse.

"We're young and insane," she quietly tells him. "We can do whatever we want."

Her words excite him, make his stomach twist and his body quake. Slow and slightly hesitant he leans down until her warm lips are pressed against his own. He can feel her shiver. Or maybe that was him?

Lucy makes a noise at the back of her throat and pushes forward, her hand snaking up the front of his shirt towards his neck. He pulls away and quickly grabs her wrist, stopping her from going any further.

"What?" she asks.

"I- I don't-"

"Simon, it's okay. I don't mind it."

"I do," he admits, shame seeping in.

"You shouldn't. It's a part of you."

"It'll go away someday."

"Then let me enjoy it while it's still here."

He wants to say something, wants to ask what happened to her that's made her like such dark things. But he knows it wouldn't be fair, seeing as he doesn't talk about himself. Besides, she's too busy kissing him again for him to get the words out.

Lucy shakes her hand until he lets go of her wrist and she fists his shirt, hoisting herself up and over him. She maneuvers around his legs until she's sitting on top of him, straddling his waist. His grip on her hips tightens as she opens her mouth, him following her moves until his tongue is sliding over hers. Lucy whimpers and presses her body closer to his.

And when her hand slides up to his throat, he doesn't stop her, he doesn't stop at all. He lets her run her fingers along the indent and tilt his head back, pull her mouth away from his and press her lips against the dotted line, run her tongue along it.

He's shaking everywhere, and so is she. His thoughts are racing a mile a minute. _Slow down_, they're screaming. She rolls her hips, grinding against him, and he swears his eyes nearly roll out of his head.

Their breathing is so loud in this quiet room.

"I'll check in here," someone calls out, and the sound of the door handle turning makes both of them freeze.

"Shit," Lucy whispers, scrambling off him. She hits the floor and reaches up, grabbing his shirt and yanking him down with her. They both lie there, holding their breath as the door opens and the light comes on. The brightness of it hurts his eyes. And all he can think just then is how glad he is that the couch faces away from the door so they can't be seen over the back of it.

That thanks is short lived as footsteps fall inside the room. They're going to get caught, he's sure of it. It'll be hours more spent in therapy, and harsher rules set on them for being found together.

"Hey, Jackie, we found him," someone else calls out. The footsteps stop.

Lucy reaches out and grabs his hand, giving it a squeeze as the nurse starts to walk away. She shuts off the light and closes the door on her way out. Lucy wastes no time jumping up. She squeezes herself and giggles, while he's still trying to get his eyes to adjust back to the dark. "That was so close," she breathes out.

Simon takes a deep breath and lets it out slow. "We should... probably get back to our rooms."

"Scared you, did that? Not me. I sneak out of my room all the time. Haven't gotten caught once."

"And if you do get caught?"

"I don't know, I'll blame it on sleepwalking?"

He nods. "Well, I'm already on watch for bad behavior so..."

"Do what you must," she cuts in, her voice slightly clipped.

He stands there quite still, not wanting to stay, but not really wanting to go. He knows he has more that he wants to say, but doesn't know how to say it. Things are back to feeling somewhat awkward again. Lucy comes forward and throws her arms around him, holding him tight.

"Did you get my picture?"

He nods.

"Good. I don't ever want to us fight again." She gives him a kiss on the cheek and releases him.

"Are you coming, too?"

She shakes her head. "I'm going to stay a bit longer."

"All right. Goodnight, Lucy."

She says nothing in return, but he can feel her eyes on him there in that darkness as he walk away.

The rushed walk back to his room makes him anxious once again, so when he does finally end up back in his bed, he's wound up tight and can't settle. If that isn't enough, what happened with Lucy in the rec room is playing on a constant loop inside his head. He reaches up and touches his lips, remembering how hers had felt. He'd never kissed a girl like that.

He thinks of her breath and her tongue on her throat and the feel of her pressed against him. He trembles under his sheets and closes his eyes, his hand sliding across his own flesh, dipping inside his sweats and he likes this... and hates himself a little for liking it.

It doesn't take him long after to fall asleep.

...

"She said I'm difficult and rude. The annoying cunt." Lucy kicks at the bench and folds her arms with a pout.

"You're not," Simon's quick to tell her. "You're just honest."

"Yeah, well, fuck her. I'm sick of being here, Simon. Aren't you sick of being here."

"You know I am."

"You sure don't act like he."

He stares out at the lot, to the people lounging on the benches and some making a half attempt at playing ball. Even doing these simple things, most of them still look unstable... mental. He wonders how many times someone has looked at him and thought the same. "We can't leave until we make progress," he replies. "Until we talk."

"We talk to each other!"

"Not about our problems," he points out, looking back at her.

She's scowling now. "Who cares about that? It's in the past."

"That's not how it works."

Her hand comes down against the top of the bench with a loud smack. He imagines it must have stung. "Fuck how it works, Simon. Jesus, are you always so... complacent? Aside from talking, you do pretty much anything they ask of you. A perfect little rule follower."

He flinches at her sharp tone. "Good behavior means getting out earlier."

She turns and looks at him, lowering her eyebrows as her upper lip twitches. "And what happens when you get out of here? Back home to mummy and daddy who treat you like a ghost? Who care more about your sister-"

"That's not true," he interrupts.

"What about your friends?" she continues. "Friends you don't have. What do you think are the chances of you getting out of here and Matt and his buddies deciding to use you as a human punching bag again"

He curls his fingers around the seat of the bench and digs his fingers into it. "Lucy, stop."

"Oh, lets not forget your community service. Where they'll probably stick you with an entire group of shithead twats who will probably treat you just as shitty."

"Enough!" The volume of his voice as he yells surprises even himself. He takes a quick look around and locks gazes with one of the nurses that's now staring over at them. She looks poised to come over at any second if things escalate. That's the last thing he needs. He looks back to Lucy with a sigh, expecting to see some kind of shock or surprise, but she's smiling instead.

She shifts on the bench and leans forward so their faces are very close. He half expects her to kiss him. "They say I'm insane, Simon," she whispers. "But we're not so different, you and I. There's a rage inside of you just waiting to come out. And someday it will. That makes you crazy, too." She leans back. "So you can stop acting like you're somehow better than us and this place. You're just as fucked up as we are. And you're never getting out."

He sets his jaw firm and looks away. "You're wrong."

She giggles. "Welcome to Hotel California, Simon. You can check out anytime you want, but you can never leave." With that, she stands up. "See you in group. Who knows, maybe I'll talk today?" She practically skips away.

Never leave.

A shiver runs up his spine as he takes another look out at the yard. That won't be him. He'll get out.

He will. He will get out.

If he says it enough will that make it true?

...

**I'd love to hear what you think. **


	6. I think I'm doing okay

**Posting schedule went wonky for a minute there lol**

**I still don't own Misfits or my bb Simon but a girl can dream.**

**Introducing another character in this chapter that will remind you of someone. Guess who :)**

**...**

Lucy sometimes pretends to smoke so she can go outside during non- free time. It's a clever trick, he thinks. Sure, every so often a nurse will come and check on her, but she gets to leave, gets to soak up what few rays of sun they do get before it'll start raining just before free time rolls around. She always goes out when it's sunny.

"You should do it, too," she tells him. Lately her fake smoking has turned into real smoking. Her hair still hides her face, but he'll watch the smoke stream from between her lips and will think about how it will be to kiss her later on, how he'll taste the smoke on her tongue. The smell makes him sick. He's sure if he attempted it, he might vomit. "They'd know I'm lying," he replies.

"That's because you're a shite liar! You simply need some practice."

"I don't want to lie."

"Why not? It's fun." she tosses her cigarette on the ground and stubs it out.

"How do you mean?"

"Okay," she scoots closer to him on the bench. "It's like this: Simon, how did you end up in the unit."

He sighs. "You already know this. I tried to kill myself."

"See, that's boring! And depressing. No one wants to hear stuff like that. You'll scare them off. Here," she turns so she's facing him entirely, an eager flare in her eyes. "Ask me how I got into this shithole."

"Lucy..."

"Just do it," she bites out.

He rolls his eyes. "How did you end up in the unit?"

"I tried to kill my kid brother, drown him. The annoying little prat was always touching my things... breaking them. So I told him, I said if he did it again I was going to kill him. He didn't believe me. And one day he broke my favorite doll! So when mother left the kitchen, with the sink full of dish water just there, I snatched him up, dragged him over, and shoved his face in it. Oh, if you'd seen the way he kicked and flailed. And I just pushed him down further. I would have done it, Simon, but mother came back and caught me. She sent me here to get help."

He's aware his mouth his hanging open, but he can't help it, really. He's been blind- sided by what she's just told him. "Are you taking the piss?"

"Do you _think _I'm taking the piss?"

"I- I don't know. You've never told me why you're in here."

"That's the point, Simon. As long as you're giving people _something _they're satisfied. Does it really matter if you're telling the truth?"

He looks at the ground and kicks at the pavement. "It matters to me."

"If you want a story for why I'm here, there's your story."

"So it's true?"

She scoffs. "No, but you're none the wiser, are you?"

He glances back to her. "Are you ever going to tell me why you're really in here?"

She reaches inside her shirt pocket and pulls out a cigarette, pops it between her lips, quickly lighting it and inhaling deep. "Nope."

...

They kiss in the dark, heavy breaths and roaming hands and the weight of all the things they never say clinging to them like a second skin. They use their bodies to say it.

Lucy is frenzied and frantic. He learns this by the way she touches him, pushing and pulling and grinding, like she can't get close enough... can't push him far enough away. He always wants to tell her to slow down. He's never got to experience something like this before, something so nice. Those words don't leave him, though.

Lucy is too hot a flame, enveloping him in this burning path that he's too afraid to step out of. Because stepping out means extinguishing the parts of him that actually _like _this twisted relationship they have.

Fucked up is better than nothing, right?

"Tell me why you're here," she breaths against his ear, moving her hips in that way that makes him wish he actually knew what the hell he's doing.

His hands freeze on her waist, his blood feeling like it's now running cold. "What?"

"In the unit. Why are you here in the unit?"

He goes very still... and very quiet.

"Come on, Simon, don't clam up now." She bites at his ear and he involuntarily twitches. She always knows just what to do to make his body respond to hers. "I know you tried to kill yourself. That's how you got that mark on your neck."

He flinches and pushes at her until she slides off him. He can't think when she's doing those things she does, and he needs his thoughts right now.

"I'm not trying to push you or anything," Lucy quickly tells him. "You don't have to tell me."

"N- no. I want to." He sighs and reaches up, smoothing down his hair as self consciousness takes over. "It's... difficult," he says after a long moment. "I don't like how talking about it makes me feel."

Lucy takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. "How does it make you feel?" And then she laughs. "God I just sounded like our twat therapist."

He smiles. "It's fine. I..." A small lump forms in his throat and the corners of his eyes wet. He hates the way his body betrays him with these actions. "I feel ashamed," he admits, ducking his head. "That I let things get that bad. That I never fought back. And when I tried..."

"Someone hurt you." It's not a question. She says it like she's known it all along.

He nods. "We were friends once. He was the only friend I had, actually. Everyone picked on me, but not him. At least not until he became popular. I was just the weird kid he still hung around. Until he _stopped _coming around and started being cruel to me. It last for years! And... I never did anything. I told people, but no one helped. And then I tried to burn his house down."

There's the briefest flair that appears in her eyes, like she's excited by this news. "No way!"

He shakes his head, hopes it conveys how bad he still feels about it. He doesn't want Lucy to think that's the sort of person he is. "I'm not proud of it. I just... wanted it to stop. But I couldn't go through with it and I got caught. I'm supposed to start community service when I get out of here."

"It sounds like you got a lot of shit handed to you. It's no wonder you tried to off yourself. I would."

It's not usually the kind of thing that would comfort someone, but her words make him feel better. He looks over at her. "Really?"

"Definitely. What's this twats name?"

Matt's name leaves his mouth in an almost growl.

"Well, he sounds like a right prick." It's funny how much she sounds like Jack as she says this. It makes him smile.

"He is." He licks his lips. "So that's it. That's why I'm here."

She gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm glad you're still here. You're the only real friend I've got in this place."

"W- what about you?"

Lucy inhales sharply. "Me?"

"Yeah, I told you why I'm here. Y- you should tell me."

"Later," she whispers.

"Why?"

"Because I want to kiss you again."

He doesn't try to argue. They pick up where they left off all too quickly, but everything she said to him sits at the front of his mind. They sneak back to their rooms just as the suns coming up and only when he's back in his own room does something dawn on him. She didn't refer to him as anything more than her friend. So why was he hoping, even just the smallest bit, that they might be something more than that?

...

He's outside all alone and feeling anxious. It's the first time he's had to sit by himself in weeks. Per Lucy's advice, he managed to lie to a point that was somewhat believable enough for him to go outside and have a pretend cigarette. He needs some space to breathe. Lucy won't be joining him, she's currently in her room after yelling at another patient during group therapy, when they threatened to tell on her for sneaking out of her room at night.

Apparently they'd heard her leaving each night, and not returning to her room until early morning. The thought of it all makes Simon nervous, the idea that the girl, being angry she got hit, will tell on them for sure. That he'll be found out, too, and they'll both get in trouble. That he'll have to stay here longer.

"Hey, you got a light?"

Simon startles, turning quickly with thoughts of Jack quickly springing to mind. Sometimes he forgets he's gone. He also forgets he's got a non- smoked cigarette in his hand and it ends up colliding with someone.

"Ah, shit."

He watches the persons hands, bright purple nails, brushing away the burning embers.

"I- I'm so sorry. I-" He looks up and the words catch in the back of his throat.

A pair of bright green eyes look back at him through a spring of curls. Blood red lips curl up to reveal bright white teeth that stand out more against brown skin. "That hurt," the girl says to him, brushing the spot she got burned again.

He clears his throat and opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out and his face heats.

The girl chuckles quietly. "Okay, well, the most you could do after nearly setting me on fire is give me your lighter."

He fumbles to get his hand inside his pocket and pull it out, quickly handing it to her. She reaches for it, and during which, he catches sight of the bandage on her wrist. She yanks her hand back and hurriedly sets the cigarette between her lips, lighting it with fast precision. She's better at it than Lucy. When she goes to hand the lighter back, he tells her to keep it.

"Won't you need it back? For your own smokes?" Her voice is high, almost musical, and makes his stomach flutter.

He glances at the ground and scuffs at it with his shoe, smiling a little. "I don't actually smoke."

She laughs. "I figured."

He looks back at her, eyes wide with surprise. "How?"

"You don't hold your cigarette like a smoker. You hold it very far away from you, like you don't like the smell. Which would explain how I ended up getting burned."

"Am I that obvious? he asks with a small smile. "I am really sorry, about burning you."

She shrugs. "I've had worse."

He watches as she takes a long hit and goes over what he wants to say in his head at least a dozen times before mustering up the courage to say anything. "You're new here."

"Scuse me?" she asks through a stream of smoke.

He swallows nervously and repeats himself. "I noticed, well, you've never been in group. Or around during free time. I just assumed you're new."

"You'd have assumed correct. Just got in a couple hours ago. While we're doing the third degree you wanna ask me what I'm in for?"

"I-" His face is on fire. "That isn't what I was trying to... I didn't mean... I'll just go now." He drops the cigarette that's burned to ash and turns to walk away when she touches his shoulder and makes him freeze. Her hand is so warm.

"Wait! I was just messing about, you don't have to leave."

He wonders why she'd possibly want him to stay. Girls as pretty as her don't talk to guys like him. And here she is, asking him in so many words to stay. "I don't want to impose."

"You do... wait!" Her eyebrows come together and she smiles. "I mean you can impose. It doesn't bother me. Besides, I'm the one who came over to you, so technically I'm the one imposing. I can go if you want."

"No!" He gets embarrassed by his over eagerness and looks down at the ground.

She laughs. "You're turning bright red."

He looks to the ground reaches up to smooth down his hair.

"What's your name?" she asks.

He peeks up at her. "Simon."

"Simon, hm. You definitely look like a Simon. I like it."

He wants to tell her he likes the way his name sounds as she says it, knows he'd never have the courage to do so. "What's yours?"

"Guess."

He stares at her for a few minutes before replying, "I don't know."

"Emma," she quickly answers. "I'm Emma."

"Emma," he repeats. "You look like an Emma."

"You're funny," she says with a small giggle. Then, "How long have you been in here?"

He looks around with a scowl. "Nearly a month."

"Oh, you don't think they'll keep me in here that long, do you?"

"Not if you cooperate, do what they want."

She takes another hit and blows out a few rings of smoke. "And what's that?"

"Talk," he replies, and he can't keep the contempt from his voice. ""Follow the rules, participate." _Be everything you're not._

"And I'll get out sooner?"

He nods.

"So then why are you still here?"

He has to stop himself from visibly cringing, his normal reaction to these sort of questions. He doesn't want her to see that. "I don't... talk," he answers carefully.

"At all? Or you mean to them? 'Cause you're kind of talking to me."

"Yeah."

"Oh, do you... do you not want to talk? God, you probably don't! And here I am, chatting your fuckin' ear off. I'm such an idiot."

"You're not!" he's quick to tell her. "I- I don't mind. It's nice... having someone to talk to."

She smiles. "Yeah, it is, isn't it."

A door behind them opens and Simon glances over his should to see a nurse standing there. "Smoke break's over. Get back inside." The door slams behind her as she slips back inside.

"Wow! Pleasant one, isn't she?"

Simon smiles. "That's nurse Donna. She's the resident grouch."

"Thanks for letting me know. I'll be sure to go out of my way to avoid her."

"We should get inside."

She nods. "And then what?"

"Group, dinner... back to our rooms."

"Sounds like a blast." She tells him, rolling her eyes. "All right, then. Lets do this, yeah?" She tosses her smoke on the ground and stubs it out. "Well, thanks for letting me bug you. I'll see you around?"

He swallows hard and nods. "It was nice meeting you Emma." He's rewarded with another smile before she walks past him and disappears inside.

She smelled like apples, he thinks, the air leaving his lungs in a heavy gust as he tries to comprehend what just happened. He'd actually talked to someone, someone who wasn't Lucy. And she said she liked his name. She was _nice _to him. He has a Cheshire grin on his face all the way to the cafeteria. Nothing can bring him down.

Except maybe Lucy herself.

She sits across from him with her notebook open, face buried in it, the pencil in her hand moving furious and swift on the page. She pays him no mind, and the way she has her lip curled and teeth barred in an almost predatory look tells him it's best not to draw attention to himself anyway. She'd probably yell at him. He even entertains the thought that she might stab him with that pencil she's digging into the paper. A small chill ripples up his spine.

He decides to stay quiet and instead looks around and ends up catching sight of Emma sitting in one of the corners of the cafeteria, next to the window. She's staring out it. He thinks of how lonely she looks. He wonders if she'd come if he called her over to sit with them.

A loud crack makes him jump and look back to Lucy. She's just stabbed her notebook and shattered her pencil, and his now glaring at him through slitted eyes. "What are you looking at?"

"N- nothing." He averts his eyes to the table.

"An extra hour of therapy and no free time for a week! Can you believe that? All because that slag bitch couldn't keep her mouth shut. She'll keep quiet now, I guarantee it."

Simon quickly looks back at her. "What? What did you do?"

Lucy shrugs. "What I had to in order to ensure her silence."

He leans forward, takes a quick look around the room and back at her, whispering, "You hurt her?"

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Of course not, mister be- nice officer." She says it with a sneer. "I may have caught up with her in the hallway and merely told her that I'd cut her tongue out if she ratted."

"Lucy! You... you shouldn't say things like that to people."

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong." He finds it ridiculous that this is something he even has to explain to her. Sometimes it seems like she has no conscious about the things she does or says. "And you could get in more trouble," he adds as a reminder.

"Oh, fuck if I care anymore." She slams her notebook shut and pushes it away from her. "All that matters is we can keep doing what we're doing and that bitch keeps her mouth shut."

"M- maybe we should stop for a while."

"What?" she cries. "Why?"

He doesn't mean to, but his eyes flit over to Emma. This doesn't get past Lucy. But then, things rarely do. "Seriously, what are you- She turns and gets quiet as she obviously spots what his sight has been setting on. Turning back to him, she asks, "Who's that."

He glances down at the table. "N- no one. I don't know."

"She doesn't look like a no one. Simon... look at me."

He tries to ignore her demand.

"Simon!"

He locks gazes with her.

"Who is that?" she repeats.

He recalls his conversation with Lucy about lying. Be a better liar, she'd told him. "I don't know. Someone new? I've never seen her." He hopes he's managed to sound at least somewhat convincing.

Lucy raises her eyebrows. "Really? Well, perhaps we should call her over and introduce ourselves?"

He tries his hardest to keep his voice calm and smooth, even with his heart hammering in his chest. "If you want."

He has her here. Lucy would never go out of her way to talk to someone new, someone she doesn't know. The only one in this place she talks to is him. "She looks like a whore," Lucy says, looking over at her again.

Simon bites his tongue so hard it bleeds in his attempt not to disagree with her. "Kind of," he says after a moment.

Lucy looks back at him with a satisfied smile. "Well, looks like you're stuck by yourself for a week. Sucks for you."

In his peripheral vision, he catches the quick look that Emma gives him. Maybe not, he thinks, suppressing a smile. "I'm sure I'll manage."

Lucy rolls her eyes and reaches for her notebook. She flips it open, grabs a new pencil, and starts to sketch again, going back to ignoring him.

He manages to get a quick look at what she damaged when she stabbed the paper before. It was a picture of their therapist. She stabbed a hole in her forehead. He shivers at the sight and looks away. He isn't sure whether he likes her more than he's actually scared of her. More than he's scared of himself for getting involved with her in the first place.

...

The first time he ever talks in group- really talks- more than just the one off words he's said in the past, it's to get into an argument... with Lucy.

The topic they're discussing today, is regret. Everyone has had something to share with the group, something in their life that they've regretted. He's ignored most of what's been said, only paying attention long enough to do his normal routine when they call on him to talk. He keeps his gaze in his lap and pretends he isn't being talked to until they move on to someone else.

That someone else is the girl beside him, a little on the large side with a thick accent that's hard to understand at times. Simon tries his best to tune her out, but a bit of her story slips through. She slept with a lad, one who wasn't very good to her, and she regrets it. She tells the group through tears that if there was ever one thing in her life she wishes she could change, it's that experience.

Lucy sits beside him on the opposite side, and he can hear her becoming annoyed. She doesn't like it when people cry, which he finds a bit hypocritical considering the times she's cried in front of him. Never given a reason, of course, but cried none the less. Lucy sighs and huffs, slinking further down in her chair. He can almost feel how tense she is.

"I just wish I hadn't done it," the girl says, letting out a choked sob.

"Everyone does things they're not proud of," Doctor Jacobs says to try and sooth her. "The thing is-"

That's when Lucy decides to jump in, apparently fed up with it all. "You should have kept your legs closed."

"What?" the girl asks in that thick accent, pulling her tissues away.

"Well," Lucy leans forward in her chair, keeping her gaze locked on her, "if you'd stayed off your back, no one would be stuck in here forced to listen to you blabber like an annoying twat."

Simon balks and turns in his seat to look at her.

"Lucy." Doctor Jacobs says her name like a warning.

"That's not fair," the girl cries out. "You don't know me. You don't know anything about me."

"Oh, sod off," Lucy snaps. "Who cares if you shagged a loser. Everyone has. What makes you so special?"

Instead of answering, the girl ducks her head and starts to cry harder.

This seems to make Lucy even more angry. He can see it in the way her jaw tenses as she gnashes her teeth together. She rolls her head back and looks up at the ceiling for a minute, clenching her fingers into her palm. Simon looks across the room to see Emma staring at him, a disapproving look on her face, one that makes him contemplate causing a diversion before things escalate like he knows they will. They always do. Lucy hates group and has no problem with making that known by being mean to other people in group.

A moment later, something in Lucy's demeanor changes. She leans her head forward, eyes wide. Then, she smiles. "He got you pregnant."

Simon's gaze darts to the girl to find her stiff in her seat, skin pale, staring at Lucy.

"That's it isn't it," Lucy presses. "That's why you feel so bad, you got rid of it. Didn't you?"

"Shut up," the girls says, but the words are quiet and mumbled, like she couldn't muster the strength to put force behind them.

"Lucy, that's enough," Doctor Jacobs cuts in.

"Why?" Lucy fires back. "I thought that's what the point of group was, sharing our feelings. Well, I don't feel very comfortable sharing a room with a baby killer."

"Fuck you," the girl growls.

"You wish, slag. Don't you have more guys to shag and babies to scrape out?"

"Stop!" Simon's eyes widen as the words leave him. He may even shrink back in his seat a bit as Lucy turns to face him.

"What?"

"L- leave her alone," he tells her. "She hasn't done anything to you." By this point, he can feel everyone's eyes on him, including Emma's. He swallows hard and shifts uncomfortably.

Lucy lowers her eyes into little slits. It makes him think of a snake. "Defending your girlfriend?" she sneers. "How nice of you. Do me a favor and get away from me."

He squares his shoulders and mentally urges himself not to back down, even though he's so worked up over this altercation his legs are shaking against the metal legs of the chair. He's never spoken so much in group before, and now he's in a fight with the only person he's made friends with in here. Though he's not proud in the slightest to call her that right now. "I'm not moving," he tells her. "You... you're mean, Lucy. All the time."

"And you're perfect?" she spits back.

"I'm not perfect. But you're attacking someone for no reason. It's stupid."

Lucy stands up and crosses her arms, staring down at him with a look of utter contempt. "I can't believe you're defending that slag. What's your problem? Looking to get on her good side and earn yourself a piece? Your hand not doing your job these days?"

His face may be blazing hot, but it doesn't stop him from jumping up. The chair beneath him falls to the ground with a loud clatter and a few people gasp. He can feel Emma's eyes on him from across the room, and he wonders what she thinks about all this. Surely they must look mad.

The therapist tries to defuse things, telling them to calm down, but it's pointless. He and Lucy are nearly in each others faces a moment later, him talking with his voice raised, trying to help her understand her error, her screaming and throwing insults.

It doesn't take long for them to both get kicked out of the room, made to sit in the hallway. Simon makes sure to stay as far away from Lucy as possible, and neither says a word. When group finally ends, people file out of the door whispering about the altercation loud enough for him to hear. A twinge of anxiety strikes. There's no doubt in his mind that word has already gotten back to Doctor Lewis, and that only means something new for her to press him about during his private therapy sessions.

When Emma comes out, he sees that she's with the girl Lucy got into the altercation with. Emma's whispering to her as they walk down the hall. He watches her with intense focus, not bothering to care that Lucy might catch him and say something. Before she's gone, she takes a quick glance over her shoulder and gives him a small smile. It's what he holds onto when they're back in the group therapy room listening to the therapist tell them they'll be sitting out of group tomorrow.

"You can sit outside in the hallway and talk through your differences," he tells them.

That won't work, he thinks of saying but doesn't. And there's no need to, really. The look Lucy's wearing speaks loud enough for both of them, he thinks.

...

"Lucy?" He's practically yelling her name as he runs down the hallway. His chest is screaming in protest but he presses forward. He can't remember the last time he felt so scared. "Lucy!" Turning a corner, he skids to a halt, his breath catching in his throat as he sees her sitting in one of the chairs outside the group therapy room. If he weren't feeling so sick, like he might toss his guts at any moment, he might have been relieved. Jogging the rest of the way down the hall, he stops in front of her and bends down so he's looking up at her.

"Lucy, oh god. I heard... they said..." He has to take a few deep breaths, but his chest feels like it might explode. "Someone... someone said you killed yourself."

She laughs, a breathless sound, but says nothing.

More confused than ever, Simon stands up and sits down beside her, clasping his hands together in his lap. "Talk to me," he whispers, making sure to keep his stare on the blue tiles. "Please. I- I'm sorry about the things I said yesterday. I didn't know you would... what you tried to do..." He swallows hard. It feels like someone's punched him in the throat. "Is it my fault?"

"Don't flatter yourself," she mumbles.

His thoughts go to Jack and his stomach twists. He leans forward, pressing his arms tight against his abdomen as he tries to shove the pain of each memory back down, somewhere deep inside himself like it was before this moment. Before he'd heard from someone in passing that Lucy had slit her wrists. He can't recall a single moment in his life that he's ever run as fast as he did, desperately crying out her name. It was Jack all over again. He was so sure he'd end up in front of her room, watching them wheel her out on a stretcher with that white sheet over her head. She wasn't there, though. He must have ran around the whole building before finding her here.

"What do you think it's like, Simon?" she asks a moment later in a hushed voice. "Dying."

"I don't know," he answers, looking over at her. He's hasn't felt this emotionally drained since the night of his own suicide attempt.

"Is it like this?" Her white- boned knuckles and rail thin fingers peel back the blood stained cotton on the bare of her wrist.

Simon sits back, cringing, but he doesn't look away. It's almost horrific to look at. The cuts are deep, the wound wide open. And the red, so much red- with it's rawness around the edges. Bile creeps up the back of his throat.

"Why?" he croaks, tears filling up his eyes. "Why would you do that?"

"This... this is what my insides feel like," she tells him, running a delicate finger over the marks. "All the time. Every minute of every day since I got into this place. Before that, even." If touching it hurts, she shows no sign of it. She's so calm it scares him a bit. "Twelve stitches," she says. "I tore them out with my teeth." Her burning stare finds his. "Do your insides ever feel like this, Simon? All mangled up? Ruined?"

His eyes go back to her bloodied arm. She's never know just how much or how often he feels like that. And he doesn't quite have the words to express it just now. He nods, instead.

"I can show you," she whispers, in a way that makes his skin crawl. She sounds... excited. She reaches inside the top of her shirt and pulls it down, exposing the cream colored skin beneath. There's a cut there, on her chest, where the razor blade has been biting into the flesh beneath her bra strap. She pulls it out and waves the shiny silver in front of his face. "Give me your hand."

He blinks rapidly, swallows nervously. "I don't-"

"Don't what? Don't want to do it? But how do you know if you've never done it before?" She smiles slowly. "Have you?"

He shakes his head. He's always had a love, hate relationship with blood. He hates it, but it loves him. This is evidence from the scars littered across his skin on his knees and elbows, growing up being a not so balanced child. He was always falling and getting cuts, and the blood would spring up like a stranger he knew to well and it would make his stomach churn. That hasn't faded. No, he doesn't quite like blood. Bruises, however, bruises he's familiar with. A scrap, a cut, those weren't intentional, but the bruises were.

A bruise from Matt, from the boys at school that picked on him... a bruise he would give himself when his knuckles slammed into his legs and arms and stomach as he just tried to make himself feel something, feel anything. The were a badge of honor after the pain. They let him know he was still there.

"Just give me your hand," Something in the way she says it, like she's begging him not to make her go through it alone, it causes something in him to crack. Nearly six weeks he's been in this place, and there hasn't been a single mention of the possibility of him getting out sooner. It's like he's been forgotten, left to rot away.

The thought drains him. He's so tired. Tired of getting up every day and going through the same routines with no end result in sight. Tired of being himself anymore. And then today, hearing people say that Lucy might be dead, remembering Jack all over again and the pain of it like the tearing open of an old wound, it's more than he can take. All of this, this never ending almost insanity... it's exhausting. He feels like he has nothing left to give.

His hand trembles as he places it in hers, resigning his body away for her to do as she pleases. "Now you're going to feel a small poke," she says, smiling darkly at her clever use of the phrase- the one they'd heard from nurses in this place far too often. And quickly she jabs the edge of the razor in his finger.

He'd expected to jump, for it to hurt, to feel something as the blade nipped at his skin, but there's nothing. He doesn't even flinch. Instead he watches as the skin puckers open and the capillaries swell and that first rush of ruby red blood starts to trickle down his finger all liquid warm. He stares in fascination as it slips between his fingers and settles in the indent of his palm, gathering a small pool. This is mine, he thinks. This came from me. But it feels so foreign. Ever so slowly, he tips his hand and lets the blood drip, drip, drip to the floor.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Empty," is his quiet reply.

"Then lets do it until you feel full again."

So he does. He lets her jab him ten more times, cut him eight, gather his blood on her fingertips and slip it into her mouth and he just stares... curious, and frightened.

I've lost my mind, he thinks.

"Now you're in me forever," she tells him.

I hate you, he wants to reply. But he's too busy watching the blood seep through his shirt and gather in a puddle on the floor at his feet.

He thinks he finally feels something.

...

He startles slightly at the clang the drink makes as it's sat on the table in front of him. When he glances up, it's bare brown skin that greets him. He flushes and raises his head entirely to find Emma standing there.

She points to the drink. "Thought you could use one."

He can't help but take another quick glance at her stomach. She's got her shirt tied up in a knot. His voice cracks as he tells her, "Thank you." He clears his throat and tugs the sweat shirt he's wearing further down his arms, hoping she doesn't question why he's not wearing his usual t- shirts. It'd been a small fight, but he managed to convince the nurse that he'd been rather cold lately and wanted to keep his sweat shirt on. Extra garments that have tassles on them aren't really allowed. Nurse Roberts had stared at him for a long time, like she could tell he was lying, but instead made a small comment on his extremely pale skin and that was that.

The time it's taking for the cuts Lucy made to heal seems like forever. Emma's the last person he wants to see that, not when she's got her own afflictions to deal with. Still, the sight of her skin makes him feel much more hot all the sudden, like the extra garment might smother him with it's heat.

"You didn't have to," he adds.

She rolls her eyes. "Just take the fuckin drink, yeah?" Her tone is light and playful, so he isn't too alarmed. "Mind if I sit with you?"

He gestures to the empty bench in front of him. "You may need to ask someone to move over."

A small giggle escapes her and she slides in across from him. "You gonna drink that?" she asks, opening her own drink and taking a long sip.

Simon watches the way her throat moves as she swallows and he forces himself to look away before she can catch him staring. He opens his own can and takes a small sip. It fizzes on his upper lip and he licks them, tells her, "It's good."

She smiles. "Orange is my favorite."

He finds himself making a mental note of this. He's intrigued by her for some reason, more than just the fact that she's beautiful and talking to him. He wants to know more about her.

Emma looks around, idly tapping her nails on her can. They're brilliantly red today. "So where's your girlfriend?"

His eyes widen. "What?"

"You know, mousy brown- haired girl. The one you almost got into a smack down fight with in group over my room mate Sarah."

"She's your room mate?"

Emma nods. "That girl-"

"Lucy," he blurts out, and then quickly wishes he hadn't. Lucy wouldn't like him talking to someone about her. Especially not someone she'd referred to as a whore.

"Yeah, her. Where's she at?"

"Um, she's... she won't be out today." _Or the next week_, he thinks, taking another drink.

"I saw her glaring at me, you know. Your girlfriend doesn't like me, does she?"

He chokes and splutters. "What?"

"Your girlfriend-"

"She's not my girlfriend," he says suddenly, blushing. "I just mean... she and I are just friends."

"Oh! Oh, sorry. I only assumed-"

"It's fine. And I don't think she was... glaring."

Emma laughs. "You're adorable. She was totally glaring. Obviously she thinks more of you than you think she does. How did you guys become friends?"

Something in his brain finally clicks as he stares at her and the smile she's wearing. She's too nice. No one's ever been this nice to him, not even Lucy. Emma is beautiful. A beautiful woman would never in her right mind want to talk to him, laugh at the things he says, joke around with him. Not without some sort of vendetta. Something's wrong here. She's being nice and asking personal questions and he's suddenly quite sure this is some sort of trap.

His head starts to pound, the thrum of his heart becoming a ringing in his ears. The words rush out of him. "Why are you talking to me?"

Her smile falters. "What?"

"Why did you come over to me the other day and talk to me? Why are you here now? What do you want?" The words are tumbling out, twisting together before he can stop them, and maybe he doesn't want to stop them. He's tired of opening himself up to people and getting screwed over. He slams his hands on the table, making her jump. "What do you want from me?"

Her eyes well and she quickly looks away. "I just... wanted someone to talk to. You seemed nice." She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. "If I gave you any idea... I- I'm sorry. I'll go."

"Wait," he cries out as she stands up. "Just... wait." He sighs. "Don't... don't go. I don't... want you to go."

"But you just-"

"I know," he cuts in. "I lost my head. I'm sorry."

She slowly slides back into the seat. "You don't trust me," she says after a long pause.

He bites his lip and looks down.

"It's okay, I understand. I'm no one to you." He watches as her one hand goes to her wirst. Her normal white bandages are covered in rows of bright plastic bracelets. He wonders what sort of deal she had to work out with the nurses to be allowed to wear those. She twists a few of them around. "Do you ever get lonely Simon?" she asks quietly, peeking up at him. A small tear slips down her cheek.

The answer is on the tip of his tongue. "Yes." He hates himself for saying it out loud. "All the time."

"Really?"

He nods.

"Me, too," she replies. "I think I was lonely before I even came here. But it's worse now. You looked lonely the other day. That's why I came to talk to you. I thought-" she stops and looks away.

"Thought what?"

A half smile plays on her lips. "That maybe we could be friends."

He still has his hackles raised in defense and suspicion. "Why?"

She shrugs. "I don't really have anyone else. I mean, I have Sarah but... I don't know, it won't be like that forever, you know?"

He knows it all too well, he thinks. "You don't have friends outside this place?"

She laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "That a question you really want an answer to?" She looks back at him. "Honestly, no. Not since..." She shakes her head and reaches for her drink. There seems to be an equal shock from both of them as he catches her arm in his hand. She looks over to him, eyes wide.

He's quick to let go and apologize, flustered at the fact that he did such a thing. What was he thinking? He's not thinking, can't think straight when she's around. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. "You have nothing to be ashamed of," he tells her. "We've all got our demons."

Emma lets out a gust of air through a half smile. "Okay, so... there was this guy." She shifts in her seat, looking uncomfortable, and when her eyes fill she looks away.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want. I don't mind." He looks at her from the corner of his eye and finds that she's looking at him again. No, not him, his throat. There's no way she can see it now beneath the sweat shirt, but there was the time they talked before. Surely she knows it's there.

The bruise is nearly gone, he knows this because he checks every day and watches it fade. Still, it's there, and she knows it's there, and that's enough to embarrass him. "Sometimes it's okay not to talk," he tells her.

Emma shakes her head. "It's... stupid."

His brows come together. "I don't think anything you say could be stupid."

She wipes at her eyes and smiles a bit. "You're sweet, Simon." For a moment, she chews on the corner of her lip before taking a deep breath. "So I was dating this bloke, yeah? We were together for a couple years- good years! I thought we were right happy together. But I find out not that long ago that, for the past six months, he was cheating on me with my mate Jenny. I break up with him, right, and then he and Jenny started telling a bunch of lies and turning everyone against me. Just... ruined everything. And I got sad. Really, really sad. Figured I'd try to make it all end."

"You tried to kill yourself."

Raising her hand, she shakes the bracelets on her wrist. "As if this wasn't enough of a give away."

He ducks his head. "Sorry."

Her response is a shrug. "What 'bout you?"

"Suicide attempt," he answers quietly.

"That bruise on your neck?"

He nods.

"You wanna talk 'bout it?"

"Not really."

Emma's face falls, as if she's disappointed by his reply. He doesn't like that look, doesn't like seeing her bothered by anything he's said.

"But... maybe someday," he's quick to add.

"Was it bad?"

A dozen memories come rushing back, all the things he's gone through. He nods. "Yes."

She nods, as well. "Do you... do you wish it had worked? Your... attempt."

He contemplates this for a moment. "I used to." A tiny grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Not so much these days."

"Me, too," she answers, smiling so wide he swears she lights up even the darkest recesses of this place.

The whistle that calls off their rec time gets blown, and he can't help but frown. For the first time since he's got to this place, he's enjoying having time to himself, time to be around Emma.

"Can we..." He looks up as Emma pulls her lips out from between her teeth and glances at the table. "Could we do this again? Meet up and talk? I kinda like talking with you."

The bench creaks when he leans forward. "I like talking to you, too."

Her eyes find his, the look she gives him so intense his stomach clenches. "Tomorrow?"

He swallows year and gives her a smile. "Tomorrow."

She stands from the bench, and he watches her go, the swing of her hips making him shift in his seat. When she's disappeared, he looks at the soda can she left behind, reaches for it. A ring from her red lipstick has been left around the edge. Simon lifts the can to his lips and presses it against them, imagines its her lips and wonders what it would be like to kiss her.

A moment later he snaps out of it, quickly pulling the can away and looking around to make sure no one's seen him. Then his mind flits to Lucy. This is a dangerous ledge he's balancing on, these sudden new feelings for Emma... his loyalty to Lucy.

He's a freak, Lucy's a freak. There's no place for Emma in their world. So he can't help but wonder why he wants so strongly to invite her in.

...

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you think**


	7. Things ain't worked out my way

**Updating early! :) Don't worry, you'll still get the regular wednesday chapter, promise. **

**As always, I don't own Misfits or Simon, I kinda just enjoy ruining his life lol**

**See you at the botom **

**...**

Simon's fingernails tear through the flesh of his palms as he slinks lower in his seat, and his gaze goes to the clock for the tenth time since he got in the room. Only thirty more minutes before he can leave, scurry away from the quiet pounding of the room he's confined to and finally _breathe_. There's no air here, hardly ever is. The rooms are too small and it smells. It doesn't help that everyone is staring at him. He hates the way they stare, like at any moment he's going to fly off the handle and kill someone, kill himself. He can hear them assessing him in their heads.

"Simon?"

He has to force himself to look at him mum, to not scowl at her. She's never liked it when he pulls faces. He doesn't do it on purpose, really. It's simply a way to express things that won't leave his lips.

"Did you hear me?" she asks.

"Sorry, I- I nodded out for a moment," he tells her.

She sighs, but smiles a second later. "Doctor Lewis says you've made some progress. Interacting in group?"

His mind goes to the argument he had with Lucy in front of everyone. He'd hardly call that interacting, but from the way his mum seems pleased by it, he knows better than to say any different. "A little," he answers.

"That's good," his dad says. "You keep doing that and you'll be out of here in no time. You're taking your meds, right?"

Simon grits his teeth, and the lie comes smoothly. "Yes."

"Excellent, now all you need to work on is talking with the therapist more. She tells us you're still not participating during your one on one sessions. You know if you're going to get out of here-"

"What does it matter if he gets out?"

He balks and his eyes quickly land on Becca. She's standing near the door with her arms crossed, looking at the ground, kicking at it with the toe of her shoe. She makes no attempt to look at him.

"Rebecca," their mum chides.

"What?" she fires back. "I'm just asking! He's the one fighting getting help all the time. It's like he doesn't even care if he gets out. And that's all you guys ever talk about."

Shaking his head, he tells her, "I do care if I get out."

"Oh, yeah? Then why aren't you out already? You could have been out weeks ago."

"Rebecca," his father cuts in. "These things take time."

"No, it's stupid. Simon's just being a selfish twat. He doesn't care about anyone but himself. He's not there watching mum cry everyday! And you work more daddy, to pay for him being in here. And he doesn't care about any of it. He'd rather sit in here and not listen or do what he's supposed to."

"That's not true," Simon tells her. "I- I've been trying! I go to the places I'm told to go and I listen to all the rules. I- I made a friend!"

His mum inhales sharply. "A friend?"

He mentally kicks himself for letting that come out. He had no intention of saying anything about Lucy. He hadn't intended to say anything at all, really. His mum likes to make a big deal about things, which is why he's never been big on telling her about events in his life. He doesn't like the garnered attention it brings about. He sighs. "Her name is Lucy."

"It's a girl?" her voice is shrill and excited. She looks like she'll suffer a heart attack at any moment.

"Yes," he replies. "It's a girl."

"Wait," Becca cuts in. "So you'll talk to a stranger, but you won't talk to me? Does she even know why you're in this loony place?" Becca's a very intuitive girl, she'll know if he's lying about anything.

"Yes," he answers. "I told her."

"That... that's inane! I'm the one who found you, Simon. I saw you dying right in front of me. And you won't talk to me about it, but you'll talk to this... this stupid girl? God, you're such a wanker!"

Something in him snaps. "See, there you go," he all but shouts. "Calling me names because I won't do what you want. You- you bully me about talking to you. You're a bully. As bad as the rest of them, as bad as Matt!"

A stunned silence hangs in the air for a good minute, with everyone staring at him wide eyed. He's never yelled like that in front of his parents, never raised his voice at all. He's always been well behaved Simon... quiet Simon. He glance at his mum and can see all the questions behind her eyes, dancing on her tongue. He knows she wants to ask about what he's just said, wants answers more than ever.

Simon rubs his hands over her face and pulls them away with a sigh. "Becca, I- I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"You'd really compare me to him?" Becca wipes furiously at her eyes with the back of her hands. She's more like him than she'd ever know, so unwilling to show emotion in front of people, hating herself when she does. He understands it, that need to pretend to act like nothing is wrong. "I could have left you there hanging," she tells him. "Is that what you wanted? You hate us so much."

"N- no, I don't... hate any of you. I don't, I swear."

"Then why won't you just talk, to any of us? I wouldn't judge you, Simon. I don't judge you."

He looks away and pushes the words past the lump in his throat. "It's... difficult. I don't know how. I'm not... ready."

"Simon," his mum says, "we only want to do whatever it takes to make _you _happy again."

"You want to get out of here, right?" his father adds.

"Yes," he answers slowly. "But maybe not just yet."

When Becca looks at him again, his gut twists. "I love you," she tells him in a quiet voice. "And I want you to be okay and come home. I want us to make popcorn and watch Battlestar Galactica and Stargate together. I want us to listen to music together on your iPod again. I... miss you. A lot."

His teeth ache with the force at which he's grinding them together to keep from getting emotional. He'll save her words for later, in the privacy of his room, where he can properly break down. "We'll do that again soon," he says after a minute. "I'll come back and it'll be like nothing's changed."

"You love me, too, right?" she asks, a quiver in her voice.

It's strange to him that she'd even have to ask. "Of course I do."

The door to the room opens and a nurse pops her head in. "Time's up."

Simon has to stop himself from sighing in relief. Before his parents have even had time to get up, he's across the room giving them half hugs and telling them goodbye, anxious to get out of the room. Becca surprises him by wrapping her arms tight around his waist and squeezing him for a long time, for once, saying nothing. He stands there stiff until she lets go.

He tells them all to drive safely and that he looks forward to seeing them soon, but the minute they're gone his legs turn to jelly and he feels like he'll be sick. He leaves the visiting room and quickly walks the halls back to his own room, where he shuts the door behind him and slams his fists into the metal until his knuckles crack and split and bleed. He sinks to the floor, cradling his messed up hands in his lap, biting back sobs that threaten to wrack his whole body. It's easier to get angry. Aggression is easier, feels better than sadness. It's better to be mad.

After a few minutes, he gets up and walks over to his pillow, holds it tight against his face and screams until his lungs feel like they'll pop. Then he gathers himself up, puts himself back together, and ventures back out.

He's fine. Everything is fine. Who is he trying so hard to convince?

...

"What's got you so blue, quiet boy?"

Emma's found him. Thinking he could hide in a place like this- in the rec room, no less, was a ludicrous idea. It isn't that he doesn't want to see her, he does. He always does. He just doesn't want her seeing him like this, an emotional mess.

"Oh, shit." She slides into the chair across from him. "What happened to your hands?"

He slips them into his lap and sets his gaze on the table. "Nothing."

She scoffs. "Bullshit. Who'd you knock about?"

If he weren't sure of the sincerity of her question, he might have laughed. Him, in a fight? A fight that he'd win in? Instead he tells her, "Perhaps you've heard of door? We had a bit of a scuffle earlier. I won."

Usually Emma laughs at his dry humor, but she's having none of that right now. "Seriously."

"Seriously. I punched a door."

"Wow, why?"

He glances up and shakes his head. "I don't-"

"It's fine," she cuts in. "You don't have to tell me. Are you at least going to get that looked at and treated?"

"No, they'll ask questions."

"Ah, yeah." She gets it. He likes that she gets it. She taps her fingers on the table, bright orange fingernails clicking against the metal as she looks around. "So... where were you earlier?"

There's no doubt how hard he flinches isn't noticeable. He curses himself for having such a visceral reaction. How is he supposed to hide things if his body is always giving everything away?

Emma sucks in air between her teeth. "Ouch. Not a good question?"

Simon sighs. "No, it's fine. I... had a visit with my parents today."

"Oh, well," she lets out a heavy breath that blows her bangs out of her face, "that explains a lot."

"Does it?"

She nods. "One day out of each week, you seem more... on edge. Like something's upset you. I get it now."

He chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment, turning her words over in his head. "You notice that?"

She smiles. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I? You're my friend."

Warm tingles spread through his stomach, so strong he has to look away. "We're friends?"

Emma scoffs. "Uh, yeah?" A serious look passes over her face, then. "Why? Are we not?"

A small chuckle escapes him, his first laugh of the day. Of course it would be from Emma, it usually is. She knows just how to pull him out of his own head and make him feel better. "We are... if you say we are. I've learned not to make assumptions."

She becomes serious once more, staring at him with intense focus. "You're different, Simon. From all the others here. You don't look at me and see my suicide attempt. You don't... treat me different. Like I'm crazy."

"You're not," he's quick to tell her. "And... you don't look at me like I'm crazy."

She smiles. "Well, other than attempting to burn someone's house down, I'd say you're not."

He jerks his head up, eyebrows raising. "How did you-"

She shrugs. "I've known about you since my second day here. I might have asked around." Almost as if she can see the panic on his face, she tells him, "It's fine, though! No judgement here."

The words don't stop the tightness in his chest. "So you know everything?"

"Hey, hey!" He jumps a little when she grabs his hand. "Sorry," she says with a nervous chuckle, giving his hand a squeeze. "You shouldn't be so hard on yourself, Simon. Whatever all that was, whoever you were then, you're not that person anymore. Those experiences don't define you."

He peeks up at her, anxious and unsure. Her words aren't entirely reassuring, as he's never been one for being able to believe someone when they say nice things to him. But her hand is warm and feels nice against his own. "So... everything?"

Her shoulder raises in a half shrug. "Not everything. Why... do you want to talk about it?"

He never would have expected his next words to be, "I think I might."

...

Emma's back is pressed tight against his chest. He can hear his own heart pounding furiously in his chest, the sound so loud in his head. If Emma notices, she hasn't said anything. Instead, she shifts her shoulders and slides down a bit, and he bites on his tongue until it bleeds as a dozen mental images pass through his head, all those things he thinks of doing with her. Those things that'll never happen.

They're friends, he reminds himself. Just friends.

Still, she's warm and smells good, and she applies more pressure to his cock each time she slides just a bit further down. She called it getting comfortable. He thinks of it more as something that will drive him mad. During dinner, she'd asked him to sneak out of his room later and come to hers. "Sarah's a hard sleeper," she'd told him. "And even if she wakes up, she won't care. We keep each others secrets."

So he had, without any second thought. He knows he'd probably do anything she asked of him.

"I had a review today," she tells him.

"I know," he answers. "I saw you go into the office."

"I haven't been here very long. I wondered why they'd do a review so early. Guess my knob of an ex has been starting shit again."

"W- what did he do?"

"Been chatting up my dad, telling lies. Said I was stalking him before I got put in here. Now my dad's talking 'bout making me stay longer. It's bullocks, Simon. I never did those things he says I did. I'm not like that."

"I believe you."

She sighs. "At least someone does."

Simon clears his throat and lets his eyes wander to the ceiling. "Matt never had to make up lies. I _was _mental."

He can almost hear Emma rolling her eyes. "No, you weren't. Cut that shit out. Matt is a bully. He was cruel and he hurt you. You had every right to retaliate. That twat deserves whatever comes to him, and it will. Karma always does."

"I'm going to get out of here someday." His stomach twists at the thought. "I'm... scared. Of what will happen."

"Don't you go to community service when this is all done?"

He swallows hard and nods, the thought nearly making him sick. He tries his hardest not to think about what comes next.

"Well, there ya go. I'm sure you'll meet people there you can make friends with."

He wants to tell her that's probably not true. He doesn't make friends with people, has never really , tried. Most people are quick to write him off, or show no interest in getting to know him. He chews at the loose skin in his mouth until it hurts and lets go. "Emma, if we weren't in here together, would you... do you think you would have talked to me? Outside this place?"

She turns to look over her should at him. "What?"

"S- sometimes, I feel like- like we're only friends because we're in here, and there's no one else. Like you never would have attempted to talk to me outside this place."

"Are you fucking serious right now?"

Sarah makes a noise from the bed, a small cough, and he listens as the sheets shift as she rolls.

He cringes. "It's just... how I feel."

She's quiet for a few minutes, and he finds himself matching his breathing to her own, still in anticipation of what she'll say next. "Okay," she finally breathes out. "Maybe... maybe you're a little right. I wouldn't have talked to you. I would have been too busy hanging out with my mates and partying, dealing with a bullshit boyfriend. I wouldn't have taken the time to talk to you and get to know you."

"I thought so," he quietly replies.

"But... but I have!" she's quick to add. "Gotten to know you, that is. And I'm really glad I have. Because you're a great guy, Simon. You're kind and sweet and smart. And funny! Oh my god you're so funny. I like that. I like that you can make me laugh after a bad day. Or how you're willing to sneak out of your room at night just to sit with me, even though you could get in _loads _of trouble. There should be more guys like you out there. I'm glad I got to know you."

Heat creeps into his cheeks and he goes to duck his head, but Emma's soft lips find his instead. He pulls back with a small cry of surprise.

Emma leans far away from him, and he can see how wide they are even in the dark.  
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!"

"What?" he splutters. "Why are you apologizing?"

"I- that was so inappropriate. I shouldn't have- god you must think I'm a proper slut." She covers her face with her hands and groans.

Timidly, Simon reaches out and grabs her wrists, pulling her hands away so she's looking at him. "You're not a slut," he tells her firmly.

"You totally weren't expecting that and I just sprung it on you."

He finds himself smiling. "It's fine, I don't mind. It was nice."

"Yeah?"

"You're b- beautiful, Emma. And you're nice to me. What do I have to complain about?"

"I've got proper loads of baggage, Simon."

He shrugs. "I tried killing myself."

"Holy shit!" Her shrill cry makes him jump, and Sarah make another noise from the bed. They both hold their breath for a moment as Sarah moves once again.

A beat later, there's a panic in his voice as he asks,"Did you hear someone coming?"

"Wh- no," she says with a breathless laugh. "I just... you've never admitted it out loud before. I've never heard you say it."

"Oh." He shifts uncomfortably, feeling a little too in the spot light for his own liking. He hadn't even really thought about what he was saying. It merely slipped out. It happens a lot when he's talking to Emma. She makes him feel comfortable enough to be himself. He doesn't have to think so much about what comes next, or how to act. It feels natural.

"Simon?"

His attention goes back to her. "Sorry?"

"Did I say something wrong? You got... quiet."

"N- no, it's fine." He sighs. "All I meant was, we all have baggage. I don't mind yours."

"You're just saying that 'cause I kissed ya."

He chuckles. "Maybe."

She gasps in mock offense and turns around, drawing to her knees across from him. "Maybe?" She pokes at his knee until he pulls them back with a laugh. "What a wanker thing to say!"

He moves back and forth, trying to escape her small jabs. "It was a joke." He puts his hands up. "A bad joke."

Her hands get trapped in his and she raises her eyebrows. "Getting bold, are we?" she asks with a slight smirk. "What will you do now, Simon? Kiss me?"

He contemplates it, he really does, because it seems like she wants him to. He's never been good at picking up signals before, but this moment is telling him he should be kissing her. So why doesn't he, he wonders as he slowly shakes his head. He tries to pretend he doesn't see Emma's face fall.

"Do you... not like me?" she asks.

He shakes his head again.

"Lucy?" He looks up, eyes widening. "Well, I guess that face says it all," she says with a small laugh.

N- no. Lucy and I..."

"I know," she cuts in. "But you're friends. And lord knows I've seen the way she looks at me. An us would kind of make things messy, wouldn't it?"

He doesn't want to say it, but she's exactly right. He sighs instead. "I'm trying to work on me," he tells her.

Emma sighs, as well. Then she's turning around and lying back against his chest again. "I guess this is okay for now, then."

Resting his chin on top of her curls, he finds himself agreeing.

...

"What 'bout Lucy?"

Simon nearly chokes on his drink. He turns to Emma, wiping soda from his shirt. "What... what about her?"

"You know what. She's off her probate period today. We'll be seeing her at dinner. You really think she'll be okay with us being all buddy, buddy like this?"

He looks away from her, to the table. "I... I don't see why she wouldn't. You and I are just friends."

She gives him a look. "I'm aware of that. But she doesn't strike me as the type to give up her thing to another girl."

"There is no thing. Lucy and I are friends. That's it."

She rolls her eyes and takes a hit of her cigarette, blowing the smoke up in the air. "We've so had this talk. She _likes _you. And I know some part of you likes her. It's pretty obvious, Simon. Why do you think I backed off the other night?"

He furrows his brow. "What do you mean?"

She laughs, a slightly dark sound. "Okay, come on, I know you're not that naive. It's just that I've watched you two together. You're like magnets. You move, she moves. Your personalities are a lot a like. I don't know, you just... fit. Like puzzle pieces. It's good, I guess."

It's not. The words don't pass his lips, regardless of how much he wants to say something, wants to tell Emma everything. But if Lucy ever found out? He nearly shudders at the thought. He'd never say the words out loud but he knows- somewhere inside him he's realized now- Lucy is almost... dangerous. She terrifies him down to his bones and yet, he also knows that Emma is partly right. He _does _like Lucy. In a different sense than Emma. Lucy makes him feel normal. With her, he _is _a freak. But he's okay with that.

Lucy is... a definite. It's everything else that feels fleeting. Like Emma.

"Hey." Her soft voice pulls him back. "Where'd you go?" She stares at him with wide, curious eyes, and his gut twists before his next words even leave his mouth.

"It doesn't matter what she thinks. You're my friend, she's my friend. It'll work out."

Emma leans into him. "Don't get mad but... she's kind of scary."

Simon swallows hard and looks back at the table. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know, just, she always has this look in her eyes. Like... like she could snap at any moment."

He thinks about what Lucy said to him in the past, about there being a rage inside him. How he's just as crazy as she is. He didn't realize until that moment just how right she was.

"She's a little mental," Emma whispers.

What does that say about him, he wonders.

...

"Let me talk to her," he says to Emma, licking his lips. Being nervous makes him parched, so his throat feels like sandpaper when he swallows. He could get a drink, but he's worried he'd sick it up. He wishes he had Emma wasn't sitting so far away. He doesn't feel so scrambled when she's close to him.

"There she is," Emma whispers.

Lucy comes into the cafeteria with her head down, hair hanging around her as usual, and her sketch book gripped tight against her chest. She weaves between a few stables until finally looking up, and Simon swears his heart stops in his chest. There are tear stains on her cheeks, and the area around her eyes is red and splotched. Lucy's been crying.

His mind has started to race with questions of why she could be upset, but he manages to give her a tiny smile, and watches as the corner of her mouth raises a bit, as well. Then her gaze shifts to the left of him, enough that he knows she's seen Emma. The way her expression instantly changes tells him as much. She looks... surprised, eyes raised and mouth slightly agape. Lucy's stare finds his own again, and she does something he never would have anticipated: she smiles. A big, wide grin at that.

The tightness in his chest is so strong by that point, he feels he may pass out. Emma has to remind him to breathe. He wants to tell her that that's easier said than done. He can already sense that something is wrong as Lucy all but skips to the table they're sitting at, the sadness she'd shown just moments before suddenly disappeared.

She slides in across from them with a breathless, enthusiastic, "Hello."

This isn't right. This... person sitting there isn't Lucy. At least not the Lucy he knows.

Of course, Emma is naive to it all, so she smiles at Lucy and holds out her hand. Lucy is quick to shake it. "Hiya," Emma replies. "You must be Lucy. Simon's told me so much about you."

"Has he?" she asks, turning her head to give him a look. "Funny, he never mentioned you."

Emma smiles, looking a bit embarrassed. "Oh, well, we just became close recently."

Simon finally manages to find his voice. "This is Emma."

"I _know _who she is, silly. We have group together."

"Right." He digs his fingers tighter into the bench. "How's your day been?" He braces himself for whatever harsh words will roll off Lucy's tongue as she unleashes, the way she usually does when he asks her anything about herself. He's thrown off guard when she shrugs.

"Same old. Rather boring, actually. Oh, I _did _help Doctor Lewis water her office plants while we chatted today. That was nice."

Simon balks. Lucy, talking? Lucy talking to Doctor Lewis and calling it... nice? "Chatted?" he asks, trying to keep the accusatory surprise from his voice.

Lucy smiles. "Of course. There was so much to discuss. It was wonderful."

Faking, he thinks. She's faking everything, right down to the smile she's wearing. And Emma falls for it without second thought. Why wouldn't she? She doesn't know Lucy like he does. She doesn't see it's all an act. A charade, just for him, he thinks.

"Doctor Lewis is amazing," Emma tells her. "She's been helping me so much. I really like her."

There it is! Simon can see the way Lucy's lip twitches in annoyance. She hates Doctor Lewis. The true her is quick to slip back into her role, though, nodding her head. "Oh, definitely. So helpful. And... sweet." The way the words drip off her tongue is like acid. "So..." She leans forward a bit. "What brings you to our table?"

Emma dips her head with a small chuckle. "Well, me and Simon here have chatted a bit and decided to be friends. I thought maybe all of us could be."

"Oh, that's great.," Lucy trills. "It's great Simon found someone to keep him entertained while I was locked away in my room ninety percent of the day." He catches the way her smile drops, the way it keeps slipping. She's getting more annoyed.

Emma lets out a gust of air. "I'm sure that sucked! But, hey, you're here now. We can all hang out and-"

"Well, actually," Lucy cuts in with a sigh, I really hate to cut this short but I'm not very hungry and I think I'm going to go back to my room."

"Aw," Emma pouts. "Are you sure?"

She nods and stands up. "Besides, I'll just end up seeing Simon later tonight, in my room. If you know what I mean." She gives Emma a knowing smile and waves goodbye to him before walking off.

Simon sits there stunned, mouth slightly agape. He watches until Lucy's gone, but he can feel Emma's eyes on him the entire time. He doesn't care to look at her, doesn't want to see whatever expression she'll be wearing in her eyes. When he does finally catch her expression, he balks slightly at her smile.

"Just friends, yeah. You're a dog," she teases, pushing at her arm with her hand.

He involuntarily flinches, already disliking the idea Emma seems to have about their relationship. "It's complicated."

"Aw, I'm a good listener. Try me."

Simon sighs and buries his face in his hands for a moment, almost hating Lucy just then for the position she must _know _she's just put him in. She just had to say something. Now Emma wants him to talk, and it's not something he's entirely comfortable sharing. Not talking about whatever he has with Lucy makes it easier to pretend that it _is _nothing. That they are just friends, that she doesn't make him feel things that he doesn't quite understand and maybe never will.

He finally pulls his hands away and looks at her. "It's like... it's kind of like you said. She and I, we get each other."

A smirk plays on her lips. "And you two just happen to end up together at night?" She giggles. "Have you shagged her?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Did you guys fuck?"

The tips of his ears and back of his neck quickly heat in embarrassment. "No! It wasn't like that. We never..." He takes a deep breath to steady himself. "We mostly talk. Sometimes we do... other stuff."

"What sort of other stuff?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

This throws him off. "Why?"

She shrugs. "Because... I don't know. You two have a history together and it fascinates me. I want to know more."

"It's not a big deal," he replies, his frustration rising a bit. To him, what he's had with Lucy seems simple, like there's nothing to really explain. "We've fooled around. We hang out. That's it."

Emma continues to smile and begins to play with the edge of the table.

"What?" he presses.

She shrugs. "Oh, nothing. Nothing."

He snaps a bit. "Why are you doing that? Why are you making such a big deal about this?"

Her eyes lock on his. "Why do you care so much why I care about it?"

"Because..." He takes a quick look around, like he's sure that the moment whatever he is going to say next leaves his mouth, Lucy will pop up out of nowhere and find a way to make him regret saying it. He sighs. "I like you, Emma. Sometimes... sometimes I think I like you more than I have ever liked her. And I'm confused right now."

She peeks over at him, with those piercing eyes that make his stomach flutter. "Yeah?"

He nods.

Emma's sighs. "All right, sorry for pushing you, then. I guess you two will hang out later and work it out, huh?"

Does he detect a somewhat sadness in her tone? Swallowing heavily, he tells her quietly, "I guess."

They're both quiet for a long moment, him staring at the table and she still playing with it. They'd seem like right mental's to anyone watching them at the moment, he thinks. Or suspicious. He straightens up and looks around to see if anyone might be watching them, if Lucy might be watching them.

"Simon, can you do something for me?" Emma finally says.

He looks over at her, sees something in her eyes he can't quit understand. "What is it?" he asks slowly, slightly worried about what she'll say. For the briefest moment, he considers she might ask him to never talk to her again.

"Don't do anything with her you aren't comfortable with, okay? If you don't want to, just don't."

A sigh of relief nearly escapes him. "What, you don't trust me?"

"I do," she's quick to tell him. "It's her I don't."

Her words send a cold chill down his spine. They sit there quietly staring at one another until break is called off.

...

He wants to run away, contemplates it quite hard, really. He wonders how far he'd get before someone caught him and brought him back. Sitting in the dark of Lucy's room, at the end of her bed, he really wants to run. Fleeing and never coming back to this spot is a nice thought. He wants to stop feeling like he'll be sick, as his airway constricts for the fifth time since he entered her room. The threat of a panic attack seems imminent.

Lucy's been quiet. Far too quiet. And yet, it's as if he can hear her thoughts, screaming at him.

"You're upset," he musters.

"No," she quietly replies. "I'm not."

"Really?"

She laughs under her breath. "Did my lie really sound that convincing?"

His chest hurts. There are so many thoughts racing through his mind, things he wants to say to her, but doesn't at the same time. Lucy doesn't let him, anyway.

"I can't say I'm surprised. I see the way you look at her."

"I don't-"

"Don't try to lie, Simon. You suck at it."

"Sorry," he mumbles.

She shrugs. "It is what it is, I guess. We're friends, right? And now you and her are friends. We'll all just be great friends, huh? Except you like her."

Licking his lips, he tells her, "I like you, too."

Lucy laughs and the sound unnerves him. It's not a kind, happy laugh. It's mocking. "Oh, come on. You know it's not nearly the same. I don't see you look at me like that. And, it's fine, I guess. You and I both know who you'll come crawling back to when shit hits the fan."

His brows furrow as he turns her words over in his head, but the understanding of it just isn't coming to him like it usually would. Maybe because he's so nervous? "What do you mean?"

"Don't act like you haven't already thought about it... wondered when she'll get bored playing with you and bail. It's how it always goes when it comes to people like us, Simon. Outcasts."

Jaw tensing almost of it's own accord, he tells her tersely, "She's not like that."

"Oh," she scoffs. "Okay. Keep telling yourself that. Whatever makes you feel better."

"Why-" Realizing how loud his voice as gotten as his temper started to rise a bit, he brings his voice down to a whisper. "Why do you do that? Why do you try to hurt me?"

"Try? I try to..." She laughs again. "What was it you said about me? 'You're just honest,' right? Simon, I don't have to _try _to do anything. You're already a mess."

He'd disagree with her if he didn't think she wasn't right. In a lot of ways, he is a mess. But not when it comes to this. With this, with Emma, his head is clear. "You're my friend. Friends don't say the things you do to each other."

She sucks in air through her teeth. "Is that what you call this?" He jerks back slightly when Lucy crawls down her bed towards him, swift as an animal. She gets close enough to bury her face in the crook of his neck and skim her nose along his throat. He holds his breath, annoyed by the way his body responds to hers.

Her lips fall against the under side of his chin, as she places her hand on his chest and moves it lower. He turns his head just enough that her hungry mouth finds his. She kisses him hard and rough, teeth biting into his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The sting of it snaps him back. He reaches up and grabs her shoulders, pushing her back.

"What?" she asks, breaths heavy and loud.

"I... can't."

"Oh, don't be such a wanker." She attempts to kiss him again, but he keeps her held back.

"No, Lucy. Emma-"

"Fuck Emma!" she all but yells.

There it is, he thinks. That anger he was waiting to see surface. He wondered what it would take for her to reach that point. Apparently being denied something she wants was the answer. And all this over simply wanting to reiterate what he's said to both of them, they're friends. Anything more with either of them would be too confusing. And yet, he's already crossed so many lines with Lucy, already.

"Fuck that slut," she spits.

"_Don't _call her that," he shoots back.

"Yeah, or what? What will you do, Simon? Hit me? Set my room on fire?"

That one hurt, immensely. He didn't know, at this point, that there was anything left she could say that would hurt him so bad, but that does. It almost makes him cry. He's quick to get to his feet and move away from the bed. "Goodbye, Lucy."

"Simon! Wait!" She gets to her knees. "Wait, please. I-"

"No," he cuts in. "You can't... you can't expect to keep treating me the way you do and have me want to stick around. I'm not your door mat."

She sighs and leans back, "So this is it?"

He swallows hard. "I guess."

"We'll still see each other during the day though, right?" she asks, her voice sounding so small and vulnerable, just then. "We'll still hang out? You, me, and Emma. Big pals?"

His eyes are burning by that point. "Maybe."

"Well, that won't be the least bit awkward."

"It wouldn't. Emma's-"

"Simon," Lucy interjects. "I really don't care."

It's best not to say anything else, he knows this. She's the calmest he can ever remember her being and he doesn't want to ruin it. He's almost thankful for it. "I should go," he whispers.

"Whatever."

He leaves the room with that one heavy word hanging between them. Sneaking back to his own room, his heart feels heavy, and there's a numbness down to his bones that he doesn't understand. Then again, he's never experienced something like this. Before being in the unit, he couldn't even get one girl to look at him, now there are two, and one so different from the other. He feels pretty terrible about how things with Lucy have gone. Despite the bad things that have happened between them, he does still care about her.

The worst of it is that he can't stop replaying what she said over and over in his mind, that she'd still be there when it was all done. Like she knows how it's going to end. And maybe he does, too, but his eagerness over something new, the freshness of liking Emma and the way she makes him feel, he's too wrapped up in that to see things any other way. For the first time in a long time, he doesn't feel so scared about what will come next, at least not as far as Emma's concerned. She makes him feel... hopeful.

And maybe that's the problem?

Here, in this unit... there is no hope.

Back in his bedroom, he crawls into bed and sits with his knees pressed tight against his chest and wills himself to think about something, anything else. His mind wanders to Star Wars. He'd been watching Return of the Jedi before the altercations with Matt and ending up here, catching up on a series he'd grown to love since he and his father watched it for the first time.

He thinks of The Force, compares himself and his situations to that of Anakin Skywalkers, torn between the light and the dark side. He thinks of all the good moments with Emma and the way she makes him feel, how much he cares for her. And that's when he remembers that, in Star Wars- with Anakin Skywalker... it was the dark side that won.

...

It's surprising to him, that Lucy leaves him be. She ignores him as much as possible. He also didn't expect it to sting as bad as it does, her blatant rejection. Other than forced interactions at group of meal times, Lucy avoids all contact with him. She turns her nose up and scurries away if they pass one another in the halls, or she'll make sure to leave when he enters a room. She doesn't even try to hide not wanting to see him.

In a way, he knows he deserves it. After all, he did turn her away when it was her wanting him. But that was different. He sees her as a constant companion, and she sees him as a human punching bag. Funny how he even seems to miss her slight jabs when they'd talk. Things feel weird with her not around, not like when she was in trouble and wasn't allowed to have contact with him. She _can _come see him, and is choosing not to. This was what he wanted, and yet, he's never felt so alienated. It's worse than it was with Matt, he thinks.

If all these thoughts weren't enough, while Lucy may have shut him out, she and Emma seem to have gotten closer. It sneaks up on him, their new friendship.

"Check it out." Emma slides in across from him at the lunch table and holds a piece of paper out to him.

"What is it?" he asks taking it slowly.

"Chill, it's just paper. It won't bite, I promise."

"All right," he says with a small smile, unfolding the sheet. His reflex at what he sees makes him inhale sharply and drop the paper as if it's burned him.

"What?" Emma asks in alarm. She snatches the sheet up and smoothes it out. "What's that look about? I thought you'd like it. I asked Lucy to draw it up so I could give it to you. Now you'll have a picture of me you can hang up in your room." She catches the look he's wearing, an apparent scowl, and her face falls. "You don't like it."

"No," he protests, shaking his head. "I- I do like it."

"Then what's with the faces?"

When he doesn't answer straight away, Emma raises her eyebrows in an expectant way. "Sorry," he sighs. "Just... you with Lucy... I don't know."

"Uh, what's there to know? We've hung out a few times."

"I know." The words come out clipped, almost acidic. He thinks how much he must sound like Lucy does when she's mad about something. Is he mad?

"Then what's the problem? You don't like us being around each other, what?"

He sighs again. "I don't... trust it."

Emma frowns. "Trust what? What's there not to trust?"

"Her," he bites out. "And those aren't my words. You're the one who called her-" He pauses and checks to make sure no one's close enough to hear what he's about to say. They wouldn't like it if they could. "Mental," he finishes in a whisper.

"Yeah, well," she shrugs, "maybe I was wrong. She's been really nice to me, Simon. She drew me that picture and said I should give it to you. She supports us being friends. Wants all of us to be close. You said she wouldn't."

"Emma-"

"Look, I'm not having this argument. You of all people should cut her some slack."

"What... what's that supposed to mean?" he asks, his defenses closing in around him like a suffocating blanket. Her words make it seem like she's implying something, and that thought itches at him.

"N- no. I didn't mean it like that, Simon. Just... you two are a lot alike-"

"We're not."

She sighs. "I don't have many- there aren't many girls to make friends with here, all right. It's nice for me."

"There are other girls here," he argues. "Your room- mate."

She rolls her eyes. "I love Sara, but we're very different people. And she deals with her own shit. The last thing she needs is to be burdened by mine. So who else is there? Nosey Nancy? Bi- polar, Betty? Simon, I mean girls I can _really _talk to. I can chat with Lucy. She listens. You know that, don't you?" Reaching across the table, Emma takes his hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "We're all lonely here and need people to reach out to. That's okay, innit?"

He looks up at the ceiling and takes a couple deep breaths. It's clear he isn't going to win this debate. Emma's already made up his mind. And if he wants her to keep liking him- and he does- apparently that means finding whatever she and Lucy have together okay. At least in her eyes. "I suppose." Looking back at her, he adds, "Don't talk with her about me. Please."

Emma grins widely. "No promises. You know how it is, girl chat and all that, yeah?"

"Emma," he groans.

She rolls her eyes with a laugh. "Fine, then. Now," she spreads the paper out in front of him. "Where do you plan on hanging this in your room? I was thinking on your ceiling? Then we can awkwardly hang around each other and try and pretend like I don't know you wanked off to me."

When his eyes widen, and his pale skin no doubt turns a deep shade of red, Emma laughs. The sound echoes around him and, despite his awkward embarrassment, he finds himself laughing, as well.

...

**Thoughts? **


	8. I'm a suffocator

**I don't own Misfits or Simon, just enjoying my time in the Unit w/ him :) **

**Thanks for continuing to read and stick out this major angst-fest**

**...**

Simon hates conflict. It makes his skin prickle and his stomach clench. Confrontation with Lucy is, of course, worse. He thinks about the last time they got into a fight, how she'd taken a blade to her wrist the next day. The last thing he wants is another repeat of that. Still, her interactions with Emma have become more frequent recently, Emma even choosing to leave him to go off with Lucy, and that makes him nervous. It makes him scared. He knows he has to put a stop to it. This leads him to cornering Lucy one day when Emma's in counseling.

His legs feel like lead, and his heart feels like it's hammering away at the back of his throat, but he manages to catch her in the rec room and back her into one of the book shelves.

"Simon?" she asks, looking up at him with those wide, hauntingly black eyes.

He tries his best to give her the most menacing glare he can muster. "Stay away from Emma."

Lucy stares up at him for a long time and before smiling slowly. "Or what?"

"Just leave her alone."

She practically cackles. "What are you going to do, Simon?" She rolls her eyes. "As if the answer isn't obvious. You'll do nothing. Because you're a coward. A scared little boy."

"I won't tell you again." His voice cracks and he mentally kicks himself.

"Oh, that's priceless." She snorts. "Adorable, really. You trying to defend your little girlfriend. Here's an idea, maybe tell your drama whore to stay away from me. I don't seek her out."

He tightens his jaw, resisting the urge to yell. "Don't call her that!. She... she thinks you like her. You- you're the one who told her we could all be friends."

"Well, it's not my fault she's gullible."

"Stop calling her names. It's not fair, what you're doing. You say stuff like this to me, but... but you're nice to her."

Lucy leans close. "You think about being _nice? _I tolerate her at best."

"Why are you being like this?" It's not a question he's been able to answer. He knows how Lucy can be, he's seen enough of it with the way she treats others, but he never expected her to be like this to him. He's been good to her.

When she brings her lips to his ear, he shivers and curls inward on himself, but Lucy remains close. Close enough to whisper, "You want my story?" Her breath is warm and he can smell the pizza she had for lunch. He hates her for this, too. "I tried to kill a girl. Filthy slut kept trying to get with my boyfriend. I almost did her head in with a brick."

Simon jerks back and frowns. "That's not true."

She raises a brow. "Are you sure? How sure are you? You don't know how I ended up here. I could do it again, you know. Make Emma's brains come right out her ears. Maybe she'd even say your name, beg you to come save her."

"Stop," he grits out between his teeth as images of what Lucy's just described come to mind. He pictures Emma like this and his stomach twists at the thought.

Lucy wastes no time, grabbing both sides of his face and stepping flush against him. She presses her lips to his, her limbs quickly wrapping around him like a snake, tightening as she yanks him back into the bookshelf. He struggles, tries to pull away, amazed at her strength all the same. He doesn't want this, knows he doesn't want this.

"Hey, guys, what's-"

Lucy quickly pulls back, giving Simon enough space to turn around and find Emma standing in the doorway of the rec room.

She immediately raises a brow. "Oh. Well, I can come back later or..."

"No," Simon protests. "Lucy was just leaving."

"Uh, no. No I wasn't. In fact, now that you're here, Emma, maybe we could all-"

"Stop," Simon grits out between clenched teeth, taking a step closer to her so his chest knocks into hers.

"Whoa," Emma jumps in, and he can hear her coming closer. "Um, I don't know what exactly I walked in on but there's hardly any need for that sort of reaction."

"Yeah, Simon." Lucy draws his name out with a smirk.

Simon's never been a violent person. He can be angry, he knows that, but he hardly ever has hurtful thoughts. So when the urge to reach out and strike Lucy settles over him, he gets confused and steps back. She's gotten him too worked up, he's allowed himself to let her do this to him. And that's what she wants, he thinks. She wants to push him until he snaps so she can tell Emma just how much of a monster he really is.

"I don't want to hang out with you," he tells her. "Not right now."

Emma comes up beside them and gives Simon a strange look, almost... accusitory. "Simon, why are you being like this?"

He nearly blanches. "M- me? She just... she just assaulted me and I'm the one doing something wrong?"

Lucy scoffs. "He kissed me," she says, looking at Emma. "I don't know what's going on in his head today. He's acting like a mental. Came in here yelling at me and then just went at my face."

"Shut up!" Simon bites out, gnashing his teeth together. "Just stop!"

"Stop what?" Emma asks, looking between the both of them.

He points at Lucy. "She's _lying_. That's what she does, she lies. She makes things up that aren't true, like she's doing now!"

"I told you!" Lucy retorts, stepping around him. "I told you he always tries to make me the bad one. Didn't I say that?"

Simon looks at Lucy and then back at Emma, a stab of betrayal rippling through his gut and chest. "She talks to you about me?"

Emma gives Lucy a pointed look and clicks her tongue. "Maybe," she says slowly, looking back at him.

"We talk about you all the time," Lucy tells him. "She told me you don't trust me. As if I'm the one she'd have to worry about not trusting. You're the one who tries to keep secrets from everyone, Mister 'oh so quiet.'

"Okay, why don't we all just calm down. Take a deep breath, and-"

"Oh, why don't you just fuck off, Emma."

Almost simultaneously he and Emma turn to look at Lucy, who's eyes have lowered into that snake- like gaze of hers she gets when she's angry, and Simon realizes, this is the first time Emma's heard her speak like this. Of course Emma has a shocked reaction.

"What did you say?"

Lucy's lip curls up in clear disdain. "You heard me. Shut up. If I have to hear your fake concerned, annoying voice one more time I think I might just actually kill myself. You have no IDEA how much I hate hearing you prattle on."

Emma raises her hands up in front of her. "Whoa, okay. Don't know where the fuck that came from but-"

"Don't know where it came from?" Lucy cuts in, raising her voice. "I can't have a single solitary moment alone with Simon anymore without you crawling up our asses, you needy bitch."

Simon can see it, watches the anger take over on Emma's face. Her eyebrows lower and her nose crinkles. She crosses her arms and takes a step towards Lucy. "You should really watch your tone."

"Yeah?" Lucy asks, stepping so close to Emma their bodies are nearly touching. "What are you going to do, huh? Help me figure out how to slit my wrists just right? Something you clearly lack the ability to do."

"What is your fucking issue?" Emma cries. "Where the fuck is this coming from? We're supposed to be friends, why are you acting like this?"

"I'm not your fucking friend!" Lucy yells. "And I'm tired of sharing with a whore. What happens between Simon and I is none of your business so you're welcome to just GO!"

Emma's eyebrows raise and Simon watches her fists flench. "You did not just call me a whore. Swear to god I'm gonna rip your fucking-"

"Emma," Simon jumps in, working on stepping between the two of them. "Emma, don't. It's not worth it. They're gonna hear you and come and you'll get in trouble."

She turns to him, the anger still swimming in her eyes. "I can't believe you. She says this shit to me and you expect me not to fight back?"

"I don't want you to get in trouble," he answers quietly.

She shakes her head and takes a step back. "You know what, you're right, it's not worth it. Neither of you are worth this shit."

"What?" The words rush out of him as hers are just sinking in. "Emma."

She throws her hands up. "Sort your shit out, Simon. Get back to me when you're done being friends with a fucking mental." She turns around and walks away, leaving him standing there stunned, like someone's just kicked him in the chest.

"I'll be here if you want to talk," Lucy calls after her. And only then does everything catch up to him and he turns to look at her. Her gaze has locked on his own, and she smiles- a smile darker than any one he's ever seen her give before. It causes a chill to run up his spine. "Well," she breathes out a moment later, "that was interesting."

"Are you happy now?" he asks, his voice sounding dull to his own ears. Where's the emotions he should be feeling over all of this? The sadness, the downright _anger_. He can't bring himself to drive those feelings to the surface, though they are there, he can't deny that. He's stuck inside his own head with this fury that's threatening to burst out of him, but he's fighting as hard as he can to shove it down and feel _nothing_. Because, if he does snap, does unleash whatever it is that's burning so hot in his gut at that very moment, he may as well admit that everything Lucy has ever said is accurate. That there is a rage inside of him, just waiting to present itself, to give way into madness. And that's not something he can afford to let her have.

"Happy?" she asks, a lilt of surprise in her tone as she moves towards him. "Why would you think this makes me _happy_, Simon? I'm not trying to hurt you."

"You could have fooled me."

She stops in front of him and, when she reaches up and touches the sides of his face, he can't even bring himself to pull away. "I'm doing this for us," she tells him. "Don't you see that?" Her hands slide down his cheeks and he jumps when she grabs his wrist. Grabbing hold of the arm of his sweatshirt, she pulls his sleeve up to reveal the healing cuts. She reaches out slowly and gently runs her fingers over them. "I know you feel something for me, Simon. Maybe even love me. You're a bad liar, but these tell the truth. Marks always do."

That's when he sees it, something he never noticed before- something he wouldn't have noticed on those nights they spent together in the dark. It reveals itself in the light, with him standing so close to her- a faint white scar, about two inches long, starting just under her ear and trailing across her neck. "Where did you get that one?" he asks, his voice just barely there.

It's as if he doesn't even need to elaborate what he's talking about. Lucy's eyes go wide and she takes a few steps back, pulling her hair out from behind her ear so her neck is covered in a brown curtain. "That's none of your business. G- go away now." When he doesn't move, she yells the word a few times until, worried that someone will come to check on them, he scurries from the room like a dog with it's tail tucked between its legs.

On his way back to his room, he searches the halls for Emma, even going as far as stepping outside for a minute- despite it being against the rules- to check if she might be out there. She isn't. She's nowhere to found. It isn't all that surprising, he thinks. She's probably back in her room, hiding away from him. The thought makes the pain return to his stomach with a vengeance. Now she's rejecting him, too.

You figure after all this time he'd be used to it.

...

Becca sits on the end of the table, legs swinging back and forth as she chews at one of her fingernails- a nasty habit as their mum would say. A habit they both share. In the chair closest to her, he bites away the skin on his thumb and stares at her. Eventually she pulls her finger away and sighs.

"So, let me get this straight. You've got two girls fighting over you?"

"What, no," he says, his skin flushing. "It's not like that. It's... just the one." This isn't a conversation he ever imagined having with someone, let alone his twelve year old sister, but there aren't many options of people to talk to these days. Becca seems surprised enough that he's confided in her.

"Okay, but two?"

He nods. "Lucy."

"And Emma isn't talking to you."

He nods.

"Well, you've got yourself in a proper mess, huh? I wonder what mum would have to say."

"_Don't_... don't tell her. Don't say anything, please!"

Becca scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Come on, Simon. You know I wouldn't do that. I didn't even tell them about the suicide note you left. I put it in my closet."

His brows raise, as her words slither into his brain like a worm, twisting and turning around. "You- you hid my note?"

She nods. "I knew it'd only upset them more. Besides, those things you said... about yourself... they weren't very nice." She tilts her head to the side and adds a moment later, "Or true. No one wanted you dead. Well, not us. _I_ didn't want that."

The guilt he feels over her words is nearly agonizing. All these weeks, all the times Becca has come to visit and support him, to _try _and make him feel better... he hasn't been very kind to her. "Thank you," he says softly. "For... for everything. For being here, now."

She gives him a small smile. "You're my brother," she tells him, like it's the only answer needed. He wonders how he didn't notice it before, how much more mature his little sister has become. He's grateful, just then, to have her there with him. He didn't realize until there was no one to talk to, just how dependant he'd become on having someone around, someone to confide in. He'd forgotten how lonely it could be.

It's nice, he thinks, having Becca here with him.

"So... what should I do?" he asks, staring at her intently, waiting on every breath for her advice.

She pinches her eyebrows together and lets out a heavy breath. "Are you sure you want my opinion? You might not like it."

He shrugs. "What else is there?"

She nods and hops off the table, tucking her thumbs in her jean pockets and kicking at the ground, looking like, even though she _has _an opinion, she really doesn't want to say it. "All right," she pipes up a second later. "I think you should tell someone, about Lucy. The things she says, how she treats you. You should talk to Doctor Lewis."

Sinking lower in his chair with a cringe, he tells her, "I don't think that's an option."

"Why not?"

_The rules_, his thoughts whisper. He goes over them in his head, the list of things that are forbidden in the unit. _Relationships between patients is prohibited. _"We're not supposed to... be with one another in here," he explains. "It's frowned upon." That's the word the therapists use, _frowned upon_. The words remind him of ones you'd use to explain something to a child, not a grown lot of people- consenting people. "We could get in trouble," he adds. "I could get in a lot of trouble."

"So no one's caught you, then. Sneaking out of your rooms at night, I mean?" She says it quiet, and he's glad for it.

He shakes his head.

"Well..." He waits for her to scold him for his bad decisions, for putting his someday release in jeopardy. She surprises him, though. She's surprised him a lot during this short visit. "Just be careful," she tells him with a small grin. It quickly fades, though, as it dawns on her- much as it's already struck him- that they still haven't come up with a solution for his problem. Becca pulls one hand away from her pocket and taps her chin. "I think... I know you don't like the idea, but I still think you should talk to Doctor Lewis."

"Becca-"

"No, hear me out. You don't have to tell her everything, but... at least let her know _something_. Make something up if you have to. Lie."

_You're a bad liar. _Lucy's words are a snake- like whisper in his ear. "I don't know."

"Simon, Lucy... do you, do you think she could be a dangerous? To you? You don't think she'd try and hurt you, do you?"

He thinks it over for a minute, recalling what she'd said in the rec room just days before, that she didn't want to hurt him. How she confessed that she loved him. "N- no," he murmurs. "I don't... think so. She's just upset."

"Because you and Emma hang out. She's jealous?"

He ducks his head. "I guess so? I don't know." He peeks up at Becca. "I care about both of them. I still care about Lucy, and... I hate myself for it, almost. But it's not..." He sighs. "I don't think I'm enough for her. It's like... like I can't give her what she's looking for." His eyebrows come together. "I don't think _she _knows what she's looking for."

They sit in silence for a while before Becca speaks again. First, she smiles, a big grin. "You've talked to me," she muses. "A lot."

He smiles back. "Yeah, I guess I have."

Her smile only seems to grow. "I like it. Lets keep doing it. Tell me about Emma."

Emma. For just one minute, he allows himself to let go of the negative aspects that currently pertain to their relationship- if he can even call it that at the minute- and the things he's already told Becca about, and focus on the good.

The corner of his lip quirks. "Her favorite soda is orange. She said, if sunshine had a taste, it would be orange." He thinks of the first time he met her. "She paints her nails a different color every day, but she likes blue the best. Sometimes she paints them to match her mood."

"What else?" Becca presses, leaning forward, staring at him intensly with those same blue eyes he sees every time he looks in the mirror.

Um, she doesn't like pork or eggs. But she loves Chille. She doesn't like chess, but she still knows how to play it... and kicks anyone's arse at it. During rec, her favorite thing to do is put together puzzles. Sometimes she'll sing along to the music that plays on the speakers during free time. She... she has a great singing voice." He smiles. "She's really funny, too. She makes me laugh. I can talk to her. About anything. She makes me feel... good."

Becca lets out a soft sigh. "She sounds wonderful, Simon."

He nods. "She is. I like having her as a friend. I hoped maybe we could... be more than that."

Becca's eyes widen. "Do you think... maybe... maybe I could meet her sometime?"

He entertains this idea for a moment, a girl he likes and his sister hanging out. It could be a complete disaster. Becca- like him- has never had many friends. But... it could also be great, maybe. She'd have a girl to be around that she could talk to, look up to... do things with. He likes the idea of her having someone to be around, to make her happy. Especially now. "That'd be great," he tells her. "Maybe when we get out of here?" His heartbeat quickens. "Maybe she could meet mum?"

Becca grins. "Oh, Simon, mum would _love _that. She'd be so happy!"

Just as quick as his excitement came, all those nice thoughts, it passes. "Except she's not talking to me," he recalls, his spirits quickly sinking. "She probably hates me right now."

She shakes her head. "I don't think she does. She's probably just hurt and needs some time."

Simon stares at her for a long time before asking, "When did you get so smart?"

A small chuckle escapes her. "Probably about the same time you started talking to me and stopped being so stupid."

He nods. "I guess I deserve that. I _was _acting like a right twat."

"It's okay. I forgive you." Her tone is light and teasing, making him smile. He thinks of how long its been since he and Becca had time to bond. He knows this has been a good experience for both of them.

"You know what you should do? As an apology to Emma, this is." There's a slight gleam in Becca's eyes. "Get her some flowers. Girls love flowers."

"I'm in a mental hospital," he reminds her.

She frowns. "Right. Oh! You could draw her something. You guys do those art things here, right? Do it then and give it to her. I'm sure she'd like it. Then you guys can talk and work stuff out."

He goes over the weekly schedule in his head. Art class is on Wednesday, only three days away. Surely he can hold out for another three days? "That's a good idea, thanks."

Becca beams. "Make sure you let me know how it goes."

Just then, the door opens and a nurse- one he's come to know quiet well during his stay- pokes her head inside. "Time's up."

Becca looks back at her with a pout. "Five more minutes?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry, honey. Rules are rules. Simon here has his one on one therapy in ten minutes here, anyway."

His sister looks back at him with her eyebrows raised, the corner of her mouthing tugging at a smile. "One on one therapy with Doctor Lewis?" She draws the words out like a reminder of her suggestion earlier. "Okay. Guess its time for me to go."

Simon stands up and, this time, instead of waiting for her to cross the room, he goes to her. He wraps his arms around her in an embrace tighter than he's given her during any of their meetings, and he can feel her sigh into his shirt. It doesn't take long for it to feel awkward, though, and he pulls away with a couple pats on her back.

"It was good seeing you," he says. "Thanks again. You know, for-"

"I know," she cuts in. "Better go before mum comes calling. We don't want that."

He nods in agreement.

"Well, see ya, Simon." She gives him a parting wave, and then she's gone. It's unexpected, how strongly he misses her when he's alone again, something he wasn't prepared to feel.

"That seemed like it went well," the nurse says as he leaves the room.

"It did," he answers with a small smile. It takes him a minute to register that the nurse isn't walking behind him. Turning around, he finds she's stopped and is staring at him. "What?" he asks, alarmed by her reaction. What did he do wrong?

"You're talking," she replies, the shock apparent by the quiver in her voice. "I've looked after you for quite a while now, and I've never heard you breathe a word. You talked!"

He nearly laughs. "I guess I did."

"Your visit must have gone very well," she says, beginning to walk again. "I'll have to let Doctor Lewis know. Or... or you could tell her yourself?"

"Maybe." It's a lie, of course, but he won't admit that aloud. Not when the nurse looks so happy about this new change. He doesn't want to dampen her spirits.

"This is progress, Simon," she tells him. "Keep it up and you could be out of here in no time."

For a moment, just one, the idea appeals to him. He imagines walking out those doors and never coming back. He'll do better out there, try harder. He'll never give anyone a reason to send him back. He's making progress, she'd say. He can do progress. That is, until he remembers that progress means getting out, and getting out means leaving Emma behind. Here alone... with Lucy.

This thought alarms him so strongly he shivers. That can't happen, he can't let that happen.

"So what did you and your sister chat about?" the nurse asks.

Simon turns away without a word and starts to hurridly walk away.

"Simon?" she calls out. "Simon!"

He ignores her and picks up the pace, eyes locked ahead of him until he's opening the door to his room and quickly slipping inside. The door clicks shut loud enough to make him jump. That was close, he tells himself. Too close. He knows he can't afford to make that mistake again. It's strange to him, then, how desperate he felt the desire to stay when he realized what that meant giving up. For so long he's been trapped in this place, losing himself, so determined to leave... until someone gave him a reason to stay.

Is that a blessing or a curse, he wonders.

...

Silence is a strange thing, he notices, the way it can be a relief... or it's own personal curse. Sometimes he enjoys his own quiet, alone outside on the bench, closing his eyes and listening to the sounds around him. Silence makes him notice things he didn't when there was someone around to chat with, like the way this leaves on the trees make a sort of hum when the wind blows through them, or the musical notes the birds nearly leave behind as they fly overhead.

Other times, the silence is so defeaning he's sure it'll cause madness, another lapse in his sanity. He'll find himself missing the sound of Lucy's pencil scraping against her sketch pad, and Emma's tinkling laugh. He hears it in his sleep, when the quiet isn't an option. He wonders when things will set themselves right and he'll have someone to be around again. He questions how much longer he'll have to wait. It could be a while, he knows.

Until then, he keeps up with his silence, the not talking. He's worked so hard at it, in fact, that Doctor Lewis becomes concerned for his well- being, thinking he's falling into another deep depression, like the one that brought him here. She decides to up his med dosage. Coincidentally, that same day, there's a bedroom raid for their entire hall.

From the corner of the room, he watches them tear through his personal belongings, checking for anything they consider a danger to himself or other patients. They come up empty handed at every turn. That is, until one of the nurses picks his pillow up from the bed. He tries to stop her as she pulls at the pillowcase, but one of the male nurses holds him back.

As the case slides away from the pillow, all his saved up pills come tumbling out, scattering across the floor.

"What do we have here?" she asks.

He lets out a ragged breath and hangs his head. "I can explain."

They don't let him. That night, a nurse stands there watching him as he takes his pill, refusing to leave until she's checked every corner of his mouth to make sure it's gone. A half an hour after she's left, lying there in his bed, he can feel the medicine start to take hold of him. It starts in his mind, of course, his thoughts becoming distorted and scattered, a sort of fog taking over his brain. His limbs become heavy not long after, so heavy he can't find the strength to move them.

Immediately he decides he doesn't like this new medicine. He can hardly function, feeling trapped in his own groggy mind. Maybe tomorrow, during his one on one, he'll talk. Just long enough to ask the doctor to lower the dose, or give him something different.

He thinks of going to the bathroom and making himself sick it up, something a lot easier said than done. His body seems determined to remain right where it is, like he's lost control of it. No, he doesn't like this feeling at all.

Sleep turns out to be the only thing he _is _capable of. The weight of how tired he becomes is impossible to fight. It drags him under and holds him there until he slips away.

His bed creaking is what wakes him up. That and the sensation of weight pressed on top of his body. He knows right away, even with the slight fog still hovering in his brain, that it isn't the medicine doing this to him, though his limbs are still feeling quite heavy.

Simon opens his eyes, peering through the blur to the spot that the weight is pushing on. He bites back a scream.

Lucy leans back so her face is no longer pressed so close to his and shifts her body. It makes his ribs scream in protest. She's sitting on his chest.

"W- what are you doing?" he asks, blinking away sleep, his voice shaking. His body, too.

"Hi to you, too," she says, pushing her fingers through his hair. When he turns his head away she sighs. "Do we really need to do this?"

"You... you shouldn't be in here. I- I'll call for someone."

"No you won't. You wanna know how I know that?" Something cold touches the side of his throat. "You remember that blade I showed you I had? Still got it, Simon. And if you make one noise, I'm going to cut you with it."

Simon swallows hard and he can feel his bladder contract. What was it he'd said to Becca about Lucy? That she wasn't dangerous to him? That she'd never harm him? How wrong could he have been? A tremor passed down his spine, making his calves quiver. "P- please. I won't do anything. I promise."

He can see her smile. "Good. Besides, if you did that, and I maybe had to do what I would have to do... well, you'd never get to hear about your girlfriend."

His body tenses, limbs locking. "Emma?" he asks, breathless.

"Who else?" Lucy snaps. "I saw her today, outside. She didn't know I was there, but I heard her talking to her room mate about you."

He grits his teeth and attempts to wiggle out from under her. If only his arms didn't feel so heavy he could push her off and assume he'd stand some chance.

Lucy giggles quietly. "Oh, come on. Don't you want to hear how it went? She said she _misses _you."

The words dig at his insides like tiny daggers. She misses him? She told someone that she misses him?All this time, the days spent apart from her, he had no idea. And here's Lucy, being the one to tell him. He would have liked to hear the news in some other way than this.

"What did you do?" he asks, suspecting there's more to this story than what she's telling him.

"Nothing." There isn't a single S in the word, but Lucy manages to make it sound like a hiss. "I didn't try to talk to her at all, okay? But I did listen. You know they talked about what happened in the rec room. Oh, Simon, it was so hard not to reveal myself, to not laugh at it all."

Simon closes his eyes tight and tries to tune her out, make himself go far away from here. He thinks, if he gives her nothing, not a single reaction, maybe this will stop. Maybe she'll go away.

Lucy leans forward, close enough that he can feel the heat of her breath. His chest is staring to hurt quite badly. "You wanna know what I think?" She moves until her lips are close to his ear. "I think she's threatend by me, Simon. By us."

Simons eyes fly open as Lucy sits back. He struggles to take a breath. "What?"

"Yeah," she replies, sitting back so he can see her sardonic grin. "I mean, look at how close we've always been. We're _such _good friends. And then she comes along," Lucy sucks in air between her teeth. "We just can't have that. We can't."

"You-" He tries to jerk upward, but the blade at his throat nicks the skin and he shrinks back. "Lucy," he swallows hard and feels another stab of panic at the blade tightening on his flesh. "I don't..."

She beats a closed fist against his shoulders and he flinches with each blow. "What's not to _get, _ Simon? It's like... it's like those times we've played chess. It's a _game_. Eliminate those pawns and you win."

"This isn't a fucking game," he cries.

Lucy sighs. "Maybe you're right. You were never very good at chess. I was always beating you. How about we look at it this way. I like you, and you like Emma. The answer is simple, give Emma a reason not to like you. What else am I supposed to do? She's going to take you away from me!"

"I'm _not_ yours to take," he bites out. "We're friends. We _were _friends."

"Sure, because that's what you were thinking when yours hands were on my tits at night, yeah?"

His skin heats. "That- that didn't-"

"Didn't _what_?" she hisses. "Didn't mean anything? You should thinks carefully about what words you use, Simon." She pushes on the blade and he can feel a tiny drop of blood slip down his neck. "Wouldn't want me to become distraught and slip."

He swallows hard. "I- I don't know," he chokes out. "I don't know what you want."

"See," she whispers, "such a bad liar." She sits up and slides back far enough that she's no longer on his chest, but makes sure her knees are pressing his hands into the mattress. It's not something he can muster the strength to care about as he takes his first deep breath since this started. His stomach rolls.

"I have to go now," Lucy tells him. "But we'll see each other tomorrow, right?"

He nods weakly.

"All right." She holds up the blade that, just seconds ago, had been at his throat, and waves it back and forth. "I want you to remember this moment, okay? When you think about talking to someone. When you get the urge to go to Emma. I want you to think about how easy it would be for me to sneak in here while you're sleeping and make you wish you hadn't."

"I- I won't say anything. I swear."

"I know you won't," she answers with a cool smile.

He nods again.

"Goodnight, Simon." Lucy scrambles off him and is out of his room before he even has time to sit up. When he finally does move, it's to roll to his side, lean over the edge of his bed, and vomit on the floor. His whole body is shaking uncontrollably. Even when his stomach is empty, he continues to dry heave, his throat and stomach constricting. With a shaking hand, he reaches up and runs his fingers over the spot Lucy had pressed that thin blade against, his fingers coming away sticky with his own blood.

_I could have died_, he thinks, just before passing out.

...

The clock tick, tick, ticks on some wall in the room, counting down the minutes until he can leave, scurry away on heavy feet with the things he was supposed to say still trapped behind his teeth. When he can return to his room and bury his face in his pillow and just scream and scream and scream until his lungs want to pop under the pressure of the things he needs to get out of him.

Fifty- eight minutes.

"Simon?"

His eyes snap up to the chair in front of him, to the woman sitting there with glasses too big for her face and matted hair piled in a bun on top of her head, giant front teeth biting into her lower lip for the dozenth time since he got in the room. Doctor Lewis, his therapist. The one who is always asking, "Do you want to talk?" The way she's just done.

He shakes his head.

"There must be something," she presses. "What about Matt?"

Matt? Funny to him how after all this time, his name still illicits the worst reactions, invountary reflexes. Just his name makes him shiver and his stomach tighten, his breath quickening. "I don't want to," he replies.

Doctor Lewis sighs and pushes her glasses up her nose. "All right, so what would you like to talk about? There must be something." Her voice drips like sweet, liquid honey, all warm and inviting, He's heard that voice every day since he got here. She sounds nice. Caring, even, and it makes him feel bad for always being so difficult. Lucy's always called her a cunt, but he's never seen her that way. She's just doing her job. She makes him _want _to talk.

"My new medicine," he mumbles.

She leans forward in her chair. "What was that?"

"M- my new medicine," he says a little louder, clearer. "I don't like it."

Her eyes widen, just a fraction, but enough for him to know she's surprised he's expressed feelings about something. "Okay, what don't you like about it?"

"I- it makes me feel funny."

"Funny, how?"

He thinks of the other night in his room, the way the drug had yanked him under it's strong hold and kept him there. "Just funny," he answers.

"Hm, it could be your body simply needs time to adjust to it? We could always adjust the dose and see how that works?"

"Thanks," he replies quietly, eyes slipping to the clock. Fifty five minutes.

"Is there anything else? Simon?"

He looks back at her and, before he can stop it, the name tumbles between his lips. "Lucy..."

She blinks in surprise. "Lucy? You mean Lucy that's here in the unit?" He nods and she's quick to ask, "What about her?"

His gaze falls on the floor as his other hand comes up to press his hair down. "Why is she in here?" he all but whispers.

Doctor Lewis eyes him for a long minute before letting out a small tsk. "You know I can't give out that sort of information. Perhaps you could ask her yourself why she's here."

_She lies_, he thinks. Doesn't say it, though, only gnashes his teeth together until his jaw aches.

"Why do you ask?" Doctor Lewis presses. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

_She's going to kill me. One day. _

"It's nothing," he answers.

Nothing.

Just a secret he needs to scream out later. His attention goes back to the clocks tick, tick, ticking on the wall.

Fifty- one minutes.

...

She makes him question his sanity.

They sit across from one another at the lunch table, Lucy working on another drawing while Simon lets his mind wander. It feels like any other normal day they've spent together. Every so often he'll look up from the table and catch Lucy staring at him. Her upper lip will twitch in a small grin and she'll quickly go back to drawing. She acts like everything between them is fine.

Did the other night really happen? He wonders if maybe he dreamt it, that it was simply the medicine he took that gave him realistic nightmares about Lucy sneaking into his room in the middle of the night and threatening his life. What if he's really gone mad and everything bad that's happened lately has just been some sort of strange figment of his imagination? Things like that happen in places like this, he knows.

Still, just to be sure, he discreetly reaches up and touches his neck. There's a scab there, no bigger than the tip of his nail. If anyone were to notice it, they'd think he merely cut himself shaving. That's not the case. Lucy _had _pressed a blade to his skin. She had threatened him. And now she was sitting across from him pretending like it never happened.

She looks up at him again and his skin prickles, hairs standing up on end. "What's wrong?" she asks, setting her pencil down. "You haven't touched your jello at all."

His eyes dart to the green pack sitting next to his food and his stomach lurches. "N- nothing's wrong. I'm not very hungry." It's not true, of course. In all reality he's starving, having hardly been able to eat for the past couple days with all the stress he's been under. He could eat both their lunches if he wanted to, but the fear of sicking it back up stops him from doing so. He's too nervous around her to do anything lately.

"It doesn't look like nothing. You look upset." She reaches out and sets her hand over his and it takes everything in his power not to snatch it away. "Are you mad at me, Simon?"

He glances up at her, the word at the back of his throat. He wants so badly to tell her the truth, that he hasn't been this angry with someone since Matt. It's obvious that isn't an option. Who knows what she might do if he were to be honest with her? "No," he answers flatly. "I'm not."

She yanks her hand away and briskly shuts her drawing notebook. "Why do you do that?" Her hardened stare finds his own wide- eyed one. "Why do you bullshit me?"

Licking his lips, he tells her, "I don't... I'm not. I- I don't know what you want from me, Lucy."

"Who says I want anything from you?" She rolls her eyes. "We're just sitting together having lunch. You could stop looking like being around me is so awful you want to kill yourself."

"That's just my face," he mumbles, looking back at the table. He wishes she would stop looking at him, it makes his skin crawl.

"That's rubbish. You never look like you want to be around me anymore."

He sighs. "Would you want to be around someone that treated you like you treat me? Who threatened your life?" There it is, his mouth's gotten ahead of his brain again. He cringes at peeks up at her and, sure enough, she's glaring at him.

"You're being a bit over dramatic," she says with the cluck of her tongue.

"What? T- that's what you did!"

"Well, if you would just do what I want-"

He shakes his head.

"Don't do that!" she yells, causing him to jump, and a nurse to catch notice of what's just happened and come briskly walking toward them. Lucy must see the alarm on his face because she turns around to see what's surprised him. "Great," she mutters as the nurse comes up behind her.

"Everything all right here?"

Lucy's upper lip twitches in annoyance for the briefest of moments before she reigns it in, smiles, and turns around to look at the nurse. "Small disagreement, is all," she tells her. "It's fine now. Right, Simon?" She looks at him, still smiling that fake smile.

_Be nothing_, he tells himself. Show nothing and then maybe no one will notice that inside he's screaming, begging for an escape. Then maybe the fall out with Lucy won't be so bad when the nurse decides to finally leave.

"Everything's fine," he says quietly.

The nurse doesn't move. "Are you sure?" she presses, eyeing Simon warily. She knows. The panic he's feeling must be showing on his face and she can see it.

Lucy turns around, no longer hiding her iritation. "Did he not just say we're fine? Why are you still here?"

The nurse gives Lucy a smile. "I'd watch your tone." Her gaze finds Simon again. "What time do you have session?"

Simon swallows hard and clears his throat. "Two- thirty."

"Twenty minutes, then? Why don't you head down early. I can call down and let Doctor Lewis know you're coming."

His eyes widen and dart to Lucy. Her mouth is set in a thin, straight line. There's a fire in her eyes, an angry wrath, waiting to unleash. Simon looks at the nurse, a plead he hopes she can see written on his face. Go away. Go away and maybe it won't be so bad.

"Come on," the nurse says. "Get up and go on."

He bounces his leg under the table for a moment before finally giving in with a nod and rushing to his feet. He struggles to maintain his composure as he slides off the bench. Making sure not to look at Lucy, he keeps his eyes cast to the floor and moves away from the table. The last thing he does, before scurrying off, is to take a quick glance at the nurse. She gives him a reassuring smile and bob of her head, and he could amost hug her he thinks. He can feel Lucy's glare, burning into his back when he walks away.

Down the hall, the sight of her jars him. He goes from walking hurridly down the hallway to stopping in his tracks with a sharp jerk of his body and his heart quickly clawing its way inside his throat. She stops when she spots him, right there in the middle of the hall, only steps away from him. She's close enough that he can hear her sharp intake of air, and it's like a song he hasn't heard in a long time. He drinks in the sight of her and his chest aches.

It's unusual for him, seeing Emma this way, looking so tired and sad. He glances at her fingers and finds they aren't painted, and it only makes the pain in his gut intensify. His stare goes back to her face, and he's thrown off by the sudden change in her demeaner. She has her head held high now, face set into a hard, stone-y look. She's gone from looking depressed to defiant in a matter of seconds.

The amount of strength it takes just to raise his heavy hand is almost exhausting. "H- hello," he croaks.

She lifts her head higher and raises two fingers in the air, then turns around and walks away, leaving him standing their with his mouth slightly agape and a sting at the corner of his eyes. His racing heart plumets, the knots in his stomach tightening in such a way that he body almost seems... cruel in that moment. He wonders if it will ever stop betraying him.

Mostly, he wishes Emma would come back. Just come back and talk to him. He would even take yelling. Anything would be better than this lonely nothing.

He smooths his hair down and sighs, turning around, only to run into someone standing there. He has to look up to see who it is, and is surprised to find a girl looking down at him- a girl from group. Not just any girl, though, the one he and Lucy had gotten into an argument over. Emma's room-mate Sara. She nearly hovers over him, then, and he swallows nervously.

"Hello."

She crosses her arms and lowers her eyes. "What've you done to Emma?"

He blinks hard in surprise at the question, mustering up a strangled, "What?"

"Emma, ya wanker. What ya done to her that's made her so upset? Crying her eyes out and shit every night."

"I- I don't understand." He starts looking aound for an escape route, and gets mildly scared when he can't find one. He glances back up at the girl. "What is it to you?"

"What..." She scoffs. "I'm her room- mate, Simon. I'm the one looking after her at night when she's upset over some bloke who hurt her." She pokes him in the chest hard enough that it stings. "You made a mess of things, mate. Best get to fixing it."

"I- I don't-"

"Simon!"

He jumps at his name being called and slowly turns his head to see Lucy stomping towards him. Perfect, just what he needed.

"You gotta be shitting me," Sara mutters as Lucy approaches.

Lucy doesn't even acknowledge that she's standing there, focusing all her attention on Simon. "You just leave me there like that? _What _is your problem?"

He tightens his jaw. "The nurse told me to leave."

"You didn't have to listen to her," she cries, slapping at his arm.

"Oi, the fuck are you doing? Leave him alone!" Sara jumps in.

Simons's stomach drops as he realizes that this has the potential to get very bad. He wants more than anything to be far away from it all when it does. Maybe he'll be able to slip away while they're screaming at each other?

Lucy turns, sees Sara, and her eyes widen for a moment. The they lower into little slits. "Oh, hello baby killer," she croons.

Sara rolls her eyes. "That ain't gonna work now. I've been getting proper help. Your words are shit, yeah."

It's obvious Lucy doesn't have a rebuttal by the way she quickly gives up on the girl and goes back to Simon, shoving a finger in his face. "Listen here-" she starts to say, but it's cut off seconds later by her sharp cry when Sara grabs the end of her finger and twists it back. "Let me go, you slag!" she shrieks.

Sara pulls her finger back farther and Lucy lets out another cry. "Call me slag one more time and I'm gonna tear it off, ya got it?"

Lucy looks up at her with now wide eyes and nods.

"And leave Simon here alone! Or I'll bladder ya for that, too." She flings Lucy's hand away from her and squares her shoulders. "You need to go."

Lucy's eyes go to Simon. She wonders how she can look scared and mad all at the same time. She looks back at Sara. "I'm going to make you regret that," she tells her.

"I'll be waiting," Sarah replies calmly, cracking a grin when Lucy turns and scurries away.

Simon's never felt such a swell of gratification. He lets out a sigh of relief and tells her, "Thank you."

"Why are you even friends with her? She's a right nutter!"

He flinches. "Some of us are still learning from our mistakes. She wasn't always like that. You should be careful."

Sara sniffs indignately. "Little bitch doesn't scare me. But I'll tell ya what, mate, whatever you got going on... should get it sorted. 'Specially with Emma."

His heart skips. "I know. I'm trying."

"All right, then. Oh, and thanks. Never got to say it when you stood up for me that day. You know that's when Emma started really liking you, yeah?"

"What?"

Sara shrugs. "She said she knew you had a good heart. Can't say she was wrong. Catch ya later."

He stands there for a while after she's left, staring at the spot she stood, repeating her words in his head. He wonders how a few simple words can make him feel so good, and hurt him at the same time. He almost wishes she hadn't said anything at all. It's not like Emma's thinking about his good heart now.

Or Lucy, not that he'd care very much if she did. Though he deludes himself for a moment that maybe if she felt that way, things would be different. Lucy seems to hate him as much as she likes him. And right now Emma doesn't like him at all.

The heart is a stupid thing, he thinks.

...

**Thoughts are appreciated!**


	9. This is my Rubik's Cube

**Oh man, I realize I'm a total fail at updating and I'm so sorry :/ Summer's been a crazy one. I can't even make the promise that I'll go back to updating regularly like I was before but I'll give it a try. Hope you'll still be reading :) **

**As usual, I don't own Misfits or the characters, I'm just swimming in its little sea.**

She hasn't stopped staring at him since he got in the room and it's making him feel unnerved. He figures he'd be used to it by now. He smooths his hair down and taps his feet on the floor, looks around and counts the plants in the room until finally looking back at her. She's still watching him, pen against the paper ready to go.

"I- I had a dream the other night," he says finally, knowing it's the only way he's going to get her to stop.

Doctor Lewis raises her eyebrows. She still manages to look surprised any time he talks. "Did you?" When he nods, she asks, "About what?"

"Community service," he answers quietly.

Doctor Lewis scribbles something in her notebook very quickly. "What about it?"

He licks his lips and lets his gaze fall on the floor, throat constricting a bit. He has to take a few deep, steady breaths to stave off the feeling of a possible panic attack, a reaction he always seems to have when he says something to her. "No one would look at me," he says after a long pause. "Or talk to me. I was right there and... they all looked right through me. Like I wasn't even there. Like I was..." He trails off, not quite sure how to explain it. It made more sense in his head.

"Like you were invisible?" she suggests.

He looks up at her and nods.

"It sounds like your fears are being projected into your dreams." She pushes her glasses up her nose. "Are you scared of being rejected by your peers when you start community service?"

Swallowing hard, he admits with a bit of shame, "Yes. I- I think about it all the time."

"And these fears stem from prior experiences, yes? Like with Matt?"

For the first time in a long time, his body has no physical reaction to hearing the name. But he does still curse him in his head. "Maybe," he replies, drawing the word out slowly. "I don't know."

Doctor Lewis nods. "That's all right. It's okay not to be entirely sure."

"It is?"

"Of course. But, Simon, I feel the need to ask you something... if you wouldn't mind."

"W- what is it?"

"Why do you think you're telling me these things now? Every day for weeks, you've come into my office and said nothing. What makes today different?"

His lip twitches up into the tiniest of smiles. "You lowered my medicine dosage."

She leans back in her chair, looking surprised. "Oh?"

"You... you listened to me," he's quick to add, leaning forward in his chair. No one... no one has ever listened to me. About anything."

Her eyes soften at the edges and she smiles. She's pretty when she smiles. "Well, that is my job. Is there anything else?"

He can't help it, his smile grows. "My sister told me to stop being a twat and giving you such a... difficult time. To try and talk more."

"Your sister Rebecca?"

He nods.

"She sounds like a very bright young lady."

"She is," he says swiftly. "I- I can talk to her, about things. A lot of things."

"Do you talk with her about Matt?"

He winces. They haven't quite gotten there yet. The past two times she's visited they've only discussed Emma and Lucy. Simon can see it in her eyes, the questions she has, the things they don't talk about. But it's as though she won't say them because she's happy to be getting what she is, anything from him at all. "Not yet," he tells Doctor Lewis, hanging his head a bit. "I don't... know how."

"Don't know how to what?"

"Talk to her," he answers quietly. "About... what happened. I- I feel..."

Doctor Lewis leans forward. "Feel what, Simon? How does it make you feel?"

He looks up at her and his throat tightens. "Guilt," he admits. "Every t- time I look at her. I hate myself for doing that to her."

"I'm sure she understands."

"_I _don't understand," he bites out, his eyes wetting at the corners. "I don't understand... anything. Why I did what I did, what I'm doing here, why... nothing's ever okay." A few tears slip down his cheeks and he hurriedly wipes at them with the back of his hand, clenching his jaw. "I just want to go home," he whispers.

He's never had an ache run so deep, this desperate urge to go back to a place he's never even felt like he belonged... but he wants it now. He wants the quiet confines of his room and his music and to be able to make videos again. He wants his boring, mundane life back. It was nothing, and yet it was his. He wants to go back to that because... it seems better than all this. Anything would seem better than this by now.

At least at home he has things to take his mind off being lonely, of no one caring about him or what happens to him. Here, there's only a jarring weight of being trapped and friendships that have all gone horribly wrong. This place never stopped being a prison. He doesn't know why he thought it could be different. Lucy was right, he thinks. "I'm never going to get out of here," his mouth says.

Doctor Lewis shakes her head. "I wouldn't say that, Simon. Getting out of here is about the progress you make in your recovery, and look how well you've done lately. Look at how well you did today." She leans forward far enough to place her hand on his knee. "You'll get out of here, I promise."

"When?"

"That's up to you," she says in a soft voice.

The bell on the desk behind her rings loudly and, for once, he doesn't flinch or jump at its sound. He's too busy thinking about what Doctor Lewis has just said to him, and the things he'll talk to his sister about the next time they visit with each other, and all the things he hasn't yet said that he's starting to want to.

He thinks and think and thinks until he's back in his room and can't remember when he ended up there or how much time has really gone by, but that he's now thought enough to know this. He _will _get out of here. He will. There's nothing else to lose, nothing to take away or lose sleep over. It's not like things with Emma are going to change, and getting as far away from Lucy as he can at this point, is the only real option he has. It's a whip- lash feeling, the constant back and forth he's done about staying behind, or really working his hardest to go... but all that seems passed now. He's got a firm resolve now. Yes, things have sucked lately, but tomorrow is a new day.

Tomorrow will be better.

...

In the middle of the night, he remembers why all his thoughts are fleeting.

She slips into his room like a whisper, his most silent secret. Her footsteps are quiet and her voice hushed. "Simon?"

He flinches in the dark, doesn't say a word but slides over in his cot as she creeps up beside the bed. He sees the silhouette of her body, the pale translucency of the slivers of skin peeking out from her white nightgown. So pale she's like a ghost. Another version of himself? She's far too like him, and it's a terrifying realization.

Tentatively she climbs onto his bed and lies down beside him, moving closer until her back is pressed firmly against his chest. Her hair curls around his face and he's quick to push it away, it smells like the confines of this place, disinfectant and drying paint. She reeks of everything he hates about this place, like it's seeped into her veins and nestled itself under her flesh. This place, more a part of her than he ever wants it to be of him.

So he holds his breath and doesn't move and tries to pretend like he's somewhere else, the way he's done all the night's he's been here. But she won't let him slip away. She drags him back, finding his hand in the dark between them and pulling it around her.

They lay there quietly, and he counts each breath she takes.

"I can feel your heart," she finally says. "It's pounding so hard. Why is that?"

He doesn't respond.

"Do I scare you, Simon?"

One nod.

"Do you hate me."

Another.

"Do I turn you on?"

He swallows hard, and stays quiet.

She pulls her hand out from his and it dips between their bodies once again, only this time it's not his hand she seeks out. When her fingers wrap around his cock through his pajamas, he pulls away with a hiss.

"Never had a girl wank you off before?" He can hear the smile in her voice. "It's okay. It'll feel good, just relax."

"Lucy," he says, it's the only thing he can say, because the word _don't _is trapped at the back of his throat with the others. _Don't want this. Not with you. Go away. Get out._

_Stay_

_Just stay_

And she does and she will, because she's the air he's breathing in, the soft heartbeat against his thundering one. She's all the things he finds within himself, and she's outside of him. What is _wrong_ with him?

She touches, grabs, strokes, but this time he doesn't pull away. His hips move forward and forward, finding the rhythm with her hand and god does he hate himself for this.

"I gave my first hand job at eight," she whispers. "He came into my room while I was sleeping."

He closes his eyes tight, thinks, _not now_. No lies right now. No fake stories. No stories that might be true, that he'll never know if they are or not. He tries to say stop but it comes out a jumbled mess falling into a moan instead- a sound he's never made before. And faster she moves her hand.

"He showed me how to do it. How to squeeze just right, move my hand _just _right. The perfect speed, perfect tempo. Just like this, Simon. Do you like this now?"

"No," he manages to choke out. But he doesn't stop her, doesn't actually _want _to stop her. So he squeezes his eyes tighter together and tries to turn her voice into white noise, but her breathing is so loud and she's doing these things. There wonderful, dark, terrible things.

"He made me suck him off, too. That was after he got bored with my delicate wrists. Oh, Simon, he taught me so much. The things I could _show _you. Do to you."

His breaths becoming erratic, the heat of her hand almost a painful, welcoming burn.

"He at least had the courtesy to wait until I was a teenager to fuck me. Silver lining, right? And I was _so _good. So good at keeping this secret. I never said a word. I was such a good. girl. But one day he got bored with me." She slows down the movement of her hand. "And I saw it, noticed the way he was staring at my little sister and I couldn't-" Her voice cracks. She sniffles and begins stroking him fast again. His balls tighten as her voice drops down to a low whisper.

"I waited, Simon. I waited until he was asleep one night and then I sneaked into my mummy's bedroom. I thought about hurting her, too. Hurting her for knowing and never saying anything, but I wanted him first. So I climbed onto their bed, sewing scissors in my hand. I was careful not to step on mummy, of course. And then I sat down on his legs. He didn't wake up, didn't even move. He reeked like booze, like how he smelled when his weight was pressing down on top of me. I thought about that, and I thought about everything else and I thought about Emily, my little sister, raising the scissors high over my head..." She's breathing fast now, they both are, the sound so loud in the quiet room. "And I brought them down... right. between. his legs."

And he comes. Right there in her hand through his pajama pants, he comes, saying her name and jerking into her grip and feeling so, so awful about the kind of person he is, just then. When he finally pulls away and she removes her hand, as he lies there spent and feeling like he could fall into an oblivion of sleep at any moment, only then does she turn around and face him.

Her cheeks are stained with tears, but there's a smile on her face. "He lived, by the way. And here I am." She leans forward and places a kiss on the side of his mouth, then brings her lips to his ear. "You kind of remind me of him, Simon."

Then she's moving off the bed, slipping away as silent as she entered.

He doesn't try to stop her when she comes back the next night, or the night after that.

All this time, he thought he was climbing up, clawing his way out of his place. But he questions it all again as he falls farther down this rabbit hole.

...

Sometimes the halls are a scary place for him, with their echoing silence and the way they seem to go on for miles. They make him feel so small. He hates it more walking down them alone like he's currently doing.

It's pissing down outside, with rain so big and falling so hard he knows he can hear it pounding down on the roof. He'd be soaked in seconds if he went out there, so going into the yard isn't much of an option today. He hates being stuck inside, wandering about aimlessly looking for something to entertain himself with for the next couple hours of free time.

He thought about staying in his room, but every time he's in there all he ends up doing is sitting in his bed, thinking about the things he's let Lucy do to him in that very bed. That'll only pave way to more self- loathing, and he's had enough fill of that the past few days.

Lucy isn't around today, anyway. At breakfast she'd looked green, and by lunch she was throwing up. They excused her from her session and group for the day and let her stay in her room to recover from whatever it is she came down with. Simon tries to muster the ability to feel bad for her and comes up with nothing. He's glad she's not around. He's thankful he won't have to put up with her dirty looks and her sharp words, and the shame he feels every time he's around her. The way he hates himself more and more.

He almost hopes worse things happen to her... and then he takes it back because that actually makes him feel bad. He's not a malicious person, not unkind or cruel... he's not her. Or maybe he is and he's just better at hiding it? No, surely he's different. Or wishing death on her wouldn't affect him at all.

He's such a mess these days.

Coming around the corner, he stops dead in his tracks at the sight of everyone crowded around the nurses station right mere feet away. Something is clearly going on, and he's pretty sure whatever it is, he'll want no part of it. Still, he notices how distressed the nurses look as they try to talk above everyone.

Looking over his shoulder to the empty hall behind him, he gets ready to turn and leave when the sight of two police officers stops him again. It's not too much of a surprise to seem them at the unit, they often get called in to deal with suicides or out of control patients. But something in his gut tells him this is different.

Sure enough, his suspicions are confirmed when he sees her standing there with her hand covering her mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks. When she turns and catches him there his stomach flips, his heart clawing its way up his throat and bouncing in his windpipe so its hard to breathe.

This reaction intensifies as Emma comes running towards him and slams into his body, nearly throwing him off his feet as her arms come around his neck in a vice- like grip. She buries her face in his shirt, a sob escaping her.

Simon stands there stunned, hands half raised in the air as his mind tries to make sense of what's happening. Before he has a chance to do anything, Emma pulls away and looks up at him. His gut tugs at the pain in her eyes. "She's dead," she says quietly, sniffling.

A jolt passes through him. "What? Who?"

Emma's eyes fill up again. "Sara, my room mate. They found her a few hours ago in the showers."

There's no masking the horror he feels at the news, and it must show on his face because Emma starts to cry harder. She wipes furiously at her eyes and looks up at the ceiling, muttering, "God, I feel sick thinking about it."

"What... what happened to her?"

She shrugs and wipes at her eyes again. "Don't know right now. No one will talk. The girl that found her said there was a lot of blood. And the cops are questioning people. It's like... it's like they think someone here did it to her."

"I'm sure that's not the case. It'll be okay, we'll figure this out."

Her face crumbles again and she comes forward to hug him once more. This time he wraps his arms around her and holds her close as her tears soak through his shirt. He feels guilty that in a moment like this, his only thought is how good it feels to be near her again. At least until something catches his eye.

Pale skin and brown hair draw in his gaze, stood amongst the group of people. Lucy turns her head and looks at him.

_You'll regret this_, her voice rings out in his head.

He barely manages to push Emma way before he throws up his lunch.

...

"Did you do it?"

He lies there beside her in the dark, with his hands on his chest and her leg wrapped up with his under the covers. He listens to the sound of her breathing, wondering if maybe she's fallen asleep, as she didn't quite have the reaction he would have expected to such an accusatory question.

A second later she turns on her side and props her head up on her hand. He looks at her through his peripheral vision. "The cops already asked me that," she whispers. "When they found my prints."

His blood feels cold all the sudden, like icicles in his veins. "So you did it?"

"They don't think so. I explained to them that I'd taken a shower earlier, even having a nurse defend me. Besides, they took one look at the shaking and crying, tiny mental girl in front of them and seemed to ask themselves how I could hurt someone. Especially someone so much bigger than me. I guess they underestimated the element of surprise."

A lump forms in his throat. "Are you confessing your murder to me?" he asks quietly, his voice cracking.

She flops back on his bed with a sigh and rolls on her back. "I'm not saying anything."

"So you didn't do it?" He's confused now. Or maybe far too hopeful, wanting to believe she couldn't really be capable of such evil.

"If that's what you want to believe," she replies.

"Why... why would you do that to her?"

Lucy huffs and turns on her side again to look at him, her eyes lowered just a slight bit less than the way they usually look when she's annoyed. He's almost cringing already. "Okay, lets say- hypothetically- purely hypothetical, that I did kill Sara. Let me ask you this: Matt, all those awful things he ever did to you, if you'd had the opportunity to kill him... would you have?"

Simon's brows come together as he repeats the question in his head, not quite seeing how the two can really be compared. "But Sara never did to you what Matt did to me. It's not the same."

"Just answer the question, Simon. Would you... have killed Matt?"

He takes a deep breath and tries to battle down the strange sensation of guilt as he answers, "Yes."

"Okay, then it's really not so different. Sara was considered a threat. So lets say- hypothetically- that I decided to get rid of that threat before it became too severe. Before it could become like you and Matt."

"That doesn't make it right," he mumbles.

"It's not about being right," she says with a sigh. "It's about protecting myself. I look out for me, I always have." She places her hand over his own. "I do it for people I care about, too."

"That's a messed up way to show you care about someone," he retorts, pulling his hand out from under hers. At her shrug, he asks, "How did you do it?" and regrets the question almost instantly. More so at her hushed response.

"Sometimes floors are slippery. People fall."

He shudders, and the words hang between them for a moment as the corner of his eyes start to sting. He remembers Emma's face earlier, and a few tears fall down his cheeks. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Good," she answers, her cool handing sliding down his stomach and slipping into his boxers.

There's only heavy breaths and silent screams and regret after.

...

Simon watches her for a long time, absently chewing on his lower lip and pulling the skin away with his teeth. He's been waiting for her to say something, to break the ice, but she doesn't. He doesn't know why he expected different. "Have you ever had a secret?" The words tumble out effortlessly.

His mum looks up from the table, eyes widened at his sudden question. They're only ten minutes into their visitation, and she's the only one here today. His father had to take Rebecca to the doctors for a check up, so his mum came alone. So far the ten minutes have been spent in unbearable quiet in the room, his mum only looking up at him every so often to give him an awkward smile. He figured he could handle the silence, but the question worked its way out on its own.

It's almost comical to him the way she has to close her mouth and blink a few times, so surprised that he's spoken to her. It takes her a moment, but she finally replies, "What kind of secret?"

He shakes his head and sees how her face falls. It's not his intention to hurt her, but this isn't a topic he can afford to go into depth with. It's not a risk he's willing to take. Who knows what Lucy would do to him if she heard anything about this.

"Yes," his mum answers suddenly, throwing him off guard. This is not a reply he would have expected from her. She doesn't seem like the type of women to hide things, always bringing he and his sister up with the belief that lying is wrong, keeping things from people is damaging. She is the one who's pushed him so hard to open up and talk, after all.

"What was it?" he asks.

"Well, if I told you, it wouldn't exactly be a secret, would it?" A hint of a smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and he wonders how often he gives that same look. People have always said he smiles like her.

"Was it bad?"

Eyebrows pinched together, she responds carefully, "No, no. I don't think so. Why?" She turns in her chair and leans towards him. "Simon-"

"Please," he holds his hands up. "Please, don't ask me to talk about it. I- I just can't."

The concern on her face intensifies, a true motherly concern. "Are you okay, Simon? Are you in trouble in here?"

He has to swallow hard to remove the lump from his throat, shaking his head. He hates lying to her. It's easy for him to see just how much she cares, then, and it kills him having to hold it in.

"Can I tell _you _a secret?" she says.

The guilt momentarily subsides as his curiosity piques. "All right."

"Matt," she all but whispers his name, "and his mum are moving out of their house." He balks at this information, mouth opening slightly. At his reaction, his mum nods, even smiling a bit. "It's true. Now you know I'm not usually one for being nosy, but I heard a truck running in the middle of the night and I got out of bed to see what the commotion was about. I saw them loading their stuff into a truck. Word down at the market is that the missus found the mister having an affair."

"His dad was cheating on his mum?"

She nods. "Someone else said they've gone to live with some family in Wales. You won't ever have to worry about him again." With the shock still being clear on his face, his mum laughs until he finds himself smiling, as well. "I knew you'd like that," she says.

He nods once and begins to idly play with the edge of the table, peeking up at her. "You knew it was him," he says slowly. "You knew he was why..." he trails off, unable to bring himself to say it, and it's strange to him how much he's like her in this moment. She still hasn't been able to say the words.

Her face falls. "I didn't realize it was that bad. I- I should have. I should have listened."

"It's fine," he dismissively replies, a means to an out of a conversation he's not too sure now that they're ready to have. Baby steps, his therapist kept saying, don't throw too much wood in the stove too early. There's also a small part of him that may still be mad at her in some way that makes it hard from him to truly believe what's she's just told him. Whatever she may say to him next. He spent all that time being let down by people who were supposed to love and protect him.

"No, Simon-"

The door to the room opens, making them both aware that their time is up. Simon sees the way his mum's jaw tenses, though she doesn't say anything or try and argue more time like Rebecca did when things were going well for them. Instead, she walks over and bends down to hug him, whispering nearly against his neck, "It's not always a bad thing to share a secret."

A quick peck on his cheek, and then she's gone. Though he can't help but feeling like she somehow just left part of herself there with him.


	10. I'd die for you one time

**I do not own Misfits or Simon or Lucy but the unit and all it's contents are mine :)**

**I'm officially the worst at this. **

**Maybe someone's still reading? lol**

**...**

There's an unease in the atmosphere, it's been like this for a week, a tension in the halls and around the other patients in the unit. It's like everyone can feel Sara's loss and it's set everyone on edge. They're still talking, still whispering. Though the cops have assured everyone that there's no further investigation, that Sara's death was just some... accident, it doesn't seem to matter. Some still believe it was intentional.

Simon's still convinced it was intentional.

He thinks about it every time he's around Lucy, whether in passing in the halls, or when they're sitting together during free time. It bounces around his skull like an angry animal, always threatening to tear it's way out of the mental cage of torture. He beats it down, smiles, and pretends it's okay. Still, sometimes it slips, that facade, the lies he tells himself. It happens in group one day, unexpectedly.

In group, the feelings of confusion and anger seem to be more prominent. He senses it every time he comes into the room, and today is no different. It's been too quiet lately. No one's even cried.

It's instinct by now, unconsciously done, the way he searches out Lucy and goes to sit beside her. He has to force himself not to acknowledge the reaction Emma gives him, the one she's given him a lot since that day she hugged him in the halls... the hurt in her eyes. How let down she looks. He wants to tell her it's for the best, that he's only doing it to make things better, but the opportunity to do so hasn't come about recently. As he settles into his seat, he glances at Lucy for the briefest of seconds to see if she's paying attention to him. Fortunately, she's got her head low on her chest with her eyes closed, like she's taking a nap.

Looking to Emma, he mouths an apology and sinks a little lower in his chair. She gives him a nod and dips her head, eyes cast to the ground as they well up with tears. She's cried quietly a lot. He stares at her until the group therapist comes in the room and draws their attention to him.

"Today we talk," he says, settling into the chair in the middle of their circle. He looks around at them, all twelve of them in this cramped, suffocating room, and then takes a deep breath. "Today we talk about Sara. _Really _talk."

"Ain't we been talking?" one of the guys, Ben- if he recalls correctly- asks.

Doctor Jacob's nods. "That we have. Anyone wanna recap what we've talked about this past week since Sara's passing?"

One of the girls raises her hand but before being acknowledged, speaks anyway, around the finger she has half shoved into her mouth. "Bout telling the people we know how we really feel about them."

"Correct you are. And why have we done that?"

"So's those people know we cared just in case we die too soon or some shit, yeah?" another guy responds, looking around at the people in their group who nod along.

Simon recalls how he'd been called on to talk one of those days. He'd gotten ready to do the usual head down, mumble not wanting to thing he'd held onto since the first day he'd had group, but a look from Emma from across the room had stopped him. It also made him think, about his own suicide attempt, about the letter he'd left behind for someone to find after he was gone. That his last words in the world to the people he'd always known, who'd given birth to him, raised him, grown up with him, were going to be, 'No one will even miss me when I'm gone, no one will even care, and I don't like any of you enough to stay.' Probably the cruelest thing he'd ever said or thought in his whole life. He'd been so angry when he wrote it, so hurt. He wanted to make them hurt back. And the guilt he felt thinking about it had been so overwhelming that he actually found himself really talking for the first time.

He told the people in that room, those not so strangers, all about that letter. About his sister hiding it away from anyone, and how it ate at him. How even though she was the only one who ever saw it, just that it was there and existed and it was how he'd felt at one time, was something he was ashamed of. And he'd expected the worst from talking. He sat there sunk into his chair with Lucy gaping at him from one side, burning holes into him, and everyone else staring around the room and he'd waited for their judgement. Judgement that didn't come. In fact, most of them returned their own sentiments of feeling the same as he did. They told him he wasn't alone, that they'd been there, too.

Something in the way they said in, in the way they looked at him like they were looking at some version of themselves was enough to give him the idea that maybe talking in group, at least once in a while, wasn't such a bad thing. That as long as he did it in small doses, it would be okay. He _had _felt better after getting that off his chest... lighter. Afterward in his therapy session with Doctor Lewis, she'd commended him for having the courage to do that. She told him it was the most radical change in a patient's behavior she'd ever seen and that she was proud of him. That felt good, too.

"That's right," Doctor Jacob's says. "And why did we do that?"

Emma's small, cracked voice makes his chest ache. "Because Sara won't ever be able to say those things again." He watches her as she sits up straighter in her chair, looking around the room at everyone. "She'll never get to tell her mum that she's sorry she said those mean things to her when they tried to get her help, or how she still had that letter her dad wrote to her before he killed himself, or how much she loved her little brother no matter how much he drove her mad. She'll never get to say goodbye to her nan that's dying in some fucking home from dementia, or wake up each morning and say she's glad to see me like she used to do. She won't ever do that shit again because she's _dead_. And whoever did that to her gets to go on living."

"Now, Emma," Doctor Jacob's is quick to retort, "we all heard what the police said-"

"They're _wrong_!" she cries, sitting up straighter in her chair. "They hardly even fucking investigated. They questioned two people," she shoots a look in Lucy's direction that Lucy doesn't seem to catch, but Simon does. "And then called it an accident. It _wasn't _an accident! Those cops just didn't want the hassle of dealing with the crazies."

A few people, of course, get upset by her use of the word crazy and grow defensive, turning in their chairs to raise their voices and opinions at Emma. This isn't anything new, many in this place are sensitive to words like that, words that have been used to put them down most of their lives. It's a catch- 22, he's noticed. They'll get mad if you use the incorrect term, but some of them get mad even when you use the correct terms. It's just another one of those reasons why it's always been best he keep his mouth shut. He knows he'd probably end up saying the wrong thing and making someone mad, and then there'd be a fight just like the one happening now.

Doctor Jacob's has to clap his hands a few times to draw their attention back. "Now's not the time," he says.

"When is the time?" Emma fires back, crossing her arms and staring him down. She's a force to be reckoned with right now, Simon thinks.

"If you want to go into more depth on this topic, there's always one on one therapy," he replies. "Right now, it's important we stay on task. I'm not trying to diminish your feelings here, Emma-"

She scoffs and sits back in her seat, lolling her head back to stare at the ceiling, making it clear she's done discussing anything. It makes Simon sad to see her shut down like that, so much so that he tries out the idea of saying something in his head. Then, remembering Lucy next to him, decides against it. Still, he plays in his head what he would say, how he'd defend her feelings on it, and it makes him feel slightly better. He'd do it if he thought he could, he'd say anything to make her feel better.

"Now," he continues, seeming to choose to overlook anymore hassle of arguing with anyone, Emma included. "We've talked a lot about the things we'd say to people we love this week, and you've all come up with some pretty great things. Made great progress. So now I want to flip the table here a bit. Sticking with a similar theme, I'd like it we could all discuss what we might say to people no longer here. We're a large group, each with our own experiences, and loss isn't a stranger to most of us, I'm sure."

Simon can't be entirely sure, but he swears the therapist gives him a look with his last comment. One of those sympathetic ones he's always hated, the kind that tell you that they feel sorry for you, but they never know what to say to try and console you. Doctor Lewis tried, but never this bloke. If anything, it always felt like he was calling him out when he tried getting him to talk about Jack. He thinks about how they tried to talk about Jack in group like they were doing to Sara now, and he'd just covered his ears and closed his eyes until it was over. He doesn't have that reaction now, but he does make sure to look away just in case.

"I want to preface all of this," he continues, "by letting you know that, considering how sensitive this topic is, you do not have to take a turn if you don't want to. We all know that sharing is normally expected within the group, but I'm going to be lenient with this one. If you do not wish to go, you can simply say you don't want to when we come around to you. No repercussions. I want this to be a... cathartic experience, if you will- a safe place where you can maybe let go of some of the things you've possibly been holding inside. A healing excersize."

One of the other guys in group scoffs. "Yeah, that works."

He turns to him. "Mike, something you want to share?"

Mike shifts in his seat, one of his eyes twitching. He's clearly uncomfortable being put on the spot so suddenly. Simon's noticed in his time in group that Mike and he are a lot alike, both with a lot of thoughts, both not very good at expressing them when it's expected of them. Mike slinks down and shrugs one shoulder. "Just meant... shit like that, ain't really always work. Didn't work when my pops passed. Everyone always tryin' to get me to talk about it." He scowls, then. "Didn't work."

"I- I didn't know your dad died," a girl beside him says quietly.

He shrugs again, but it's there, that small crack in his facade. Where his face scrunches up just the smallest bit, like he's forcing down whatever emotion threatening to break him. "It was a long time ago," he replies, the tiniest crack in his voice.

"You want to talk about it?" Doctor Jacob's asks, but Mike just shakes his head.

"You can count me out as a lenient pass."

The Doctor, true to words, merely nods and looks around the room. "So who's willing to take that plunge go first?" His sights land on one of the girls- Bi- Polar Betty Simon recalls Emma calling her. "Betty?" he tries.

She looks up from her lap, eyes as big as saucers. There's a visible shake in her hands that makes Simon think about his own nervous tendencies. He hopes no one comments it on. They've done it to her before. From the group's time together, Simon's learned that Betty's often more manic than lucid. She's out of it a lot. But when she is there, she's really there. Like now. Looking around and noting that all eyes are on her, her eyes well up a bit.

"Remember you can say pass," he tells her.

She swallows hard, Simon watching her throat bob with the motion. He expects she'll stay quiet, say nothing at all and then cry when someone says something about it. It's what she usually does. But then, "My sister Tessa," she replies in a small voice, taking another look around the room.

When her eyes well with tears, Simon feels a slight pain in his chest. He thinks of how much it must have taken her just to find the strength to find those few words. At least until she surprises him by continuing.

"My little sister drowned when she was four. D- down by the quary. I was... I was nine. I was supposed to be watching her but my friend came over to talk to me. I turned around. It was just for a minute. Just for... for one minute." Her lip trembles and she bites it, looking down at the floor. "I'd tell her I'm sory," she says a moment later. "I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention. For... for always saying how much I h- hated her." A few tears roll down her cheeks. "I'm just really sorry."

"It's all right," Doctor Jacob's tells her when she says she doesn't want to talk anymore. "That was great work, good sharing. With situations like that-"

"It wasn't your fault," Simon blurts out. When all eyes fall on him, he doesn't feel that familiar sense of dread or anxiety he usually gets. Just a strong sense of conviction to reassure Betty. "It was an accident," he adds firmly. "You shouldn't blame yourself. Anyone... in this room could have made the same error. It's not your fault."

Betty stares at him for a long time before nodding slowly.

"I'm sorry about your sister," he finishes and the others in the room, the ones who can, end up apologizing, too.

"Thank you," she answers quietly.

He nods and Emma catches his eye, then. She's smiling.

"I killed someone once." Each of their attention turns to another guy in group. Simon doesn't know much about him, not even a name, really. However, the walls here talk, so he's heard enough to know the guy is someone that no one's ever really taken seriously.

"You've never killed anyone, Gabe," the therapist counters.

"In my head I have!" he fires back.

"Think a lot of us have done that," Mike says, illiciting a few small laughs from most of them, something Simon's never heard before. Not in their room. It seems to ease some of that tension that's been hanging about.

The rest of their time in group goes off relatively well. Only a few incidents of someone getting over emotional and causing a scene. For the most part, they talk. A lot of them, more than Simon would have expected. They interact with each other and share their sympathies and Simon can't remember the last time he saw their therapist look so pleased.

"Simon?"

He looks up from his lap, a bit surprised at when the conversation managed to get around to him.

"Simon, would you like to go?" He stares at Simon with an expectant gaze that Simon knows he's partly to blame for. He had chosen to speak, to engage more than ever before, unprompted and unafraid. Apparently that has given the therapist the idea that he'd be willing to open up more.

Simon sighs and opens his mouth but closes it just as quick, words thick at the back of his throat and Lucy's gaze suddenly burning into him.

"Come on," he presses. "There must be something."

"There is," he manages, his voice cracking. The tips of his ears heat in embarrassment and he looks away again.

"Jack," Betty says, causing his heart to skip a beat. "You two were friends. We saw you guys hang out."

He looks up from under his lashes and bites at the inside of his cheek, nods slowly.

"Do you miss him?"

His gaze quickly shoots to Emma, eyes widening at her question. Why did she care to know about Jack? She wasn't even here when it happened.

"It's just a question," Emma adds in a soft voice, like she's reassuring him that it's okay.

A little annoyed at being put on the spot, he sincerely thinks about getting up from his chair and leaving the room. Just walking out and not coming back, repercussions be damned. He hates how they've just put him in this position. He hadn't done that to them! He was nice and patient. But then, he always was. It feels like an attack, really. The more rational part of his mind knows it's not, but that doesn't make it feel like less of one in that moment. Lucy being right next to him makes it worse. He fears the idea of saying something and having her cut him down, diminishing his feelings. It's why he's never talked to her about Jack, has kept that part to himself. But then he hasn't talked to Emma about him, either.

It takes a lot, the courage to say that one word. "Yes," he replies, swallowing hard against the hard ball that seems to slide into his throat. But something else happens after he's said it, this sudden shift of some part of him that makes his body feel light, breathable. As if a weight has been lifted off his chest. "Yes," he repeats, looking at Emma.

It's easier, talking with him focusing entirely on her, like the rest of the people in the room just fade into the background like static. He pretends they're not there, none of them, not even Lucy. It's just him and this girl who's his friend, but just a little more, and she's not going anywhere. She won't leave him.

"After Matt..." He licks his lips and takes a breath to steel himself. "I didn't think I'd have another friend. Not here, in a place like this. But Jack came. He- he came and talked to me, was... nice. Kind of nice. He was nice in his own way, I think." Simon recalls that first day, how seamlessly Jack had slid into place and made his presence known. How he'd made Simon feel. "Jack made me want to live. W- we weren't friends long, though. I thought we would be."

"How'd he die?" Emma asks in that same hushed voice as before, keeping her eyes trained on him.

"He killed himself. Here in the unit. I was the one who helped him get the pills."

The sound of a few people gasping manage to slip through, reminding him of where he is and for once he doesn't care. It doesn't matter how much trouble may come to him for saying it out loud. All that matters is that the words are tumbling out of him now, weeks and weeks of unspoken things, and he's not ready to stop.

"I killed him," he tells Emma, hanging his head.

"You didn't," she replies.

"I- I didn't do it myself. But I helped! And I-" He chokes up and bites down on his tongue until it starts to bleed and the tears stay stuck just there at the corner of his eyes. "I hated him," he says a second later. "I hated him for leaving me. Like everyone does. Kids I grew up with, Matt, my parents... everyone. Everyone I care about goes away. I just wanted that one thing. That one person. And- and for him to take me with him when he left, too!" And now he is crying, and he can't stop. He wipes furiously at his eyes with the back of his hand, but they just keep coming. His only other option is to bury his face in his hands.

There's the unmistakable pressure of a hand on his back. Lucy, no doubt. He doesn't even have it in him at the moment to ask her to stop touching him. The therapist hasn't even made an attempt to use the soothing words he used on everyone else in group. Clearly he's shocked him by all this. He's shocked himself if he's being honest. He has no idea what made him let go like that, or why he's still going.

It isn't until he hears, "Woulda sucked if you did," that he manages to calm down a little. He can't be sure if it's him that's being talk to, so he snaps out of it long enough to look up at another guy from group. Ben's someone he recognizes as the group sharer, the one who usually talks during their sessions. He's always got something to say.

"What?" Simon asks, clearing his throat and taking another wipe at his eyes.

"If you died," Ben says. "It would have bloody sucked if you'd done that."

"Why?" Simon pinches his brow together, sniffling. "Why would you care?"

Ben shrugs. "This is our group. It sucks when people die and leave. You're quiet, but most of us notice ya. Kinda hard to miss it with that hair touching you always do."

Instinctively, he reaches up and smooths his hair down, shifting in his seat. All the while trying to process what Ben's just said, how clear he's made it that they do notice Simon.

"Yeah, like that," he adds with a smile. "We'd know if you were gone. Like Jack and Sara... we'd feel it."

"People that care are still here," Emma adds, giving him a sincere look.

As Lucy's hand falls away from his back, he takes a deep breath and gives them a small smile. "Thanks," he says with a nod. And he means it, honestly. He can't remember the last time he felt so secure, so safe. They'd never know, he could never fully explain, just how much it means to him to have heard those words. Especially when everyone nods along in agreement with Ben's words and goes on to share their own thoughts about him, such kind words. By the end of it all, he's nearly in tears again, thanking them all.

"This is good," Doctor Jacob's says. "Look at all of you! This is what group is about! I'm so proud of all of you." He claps his hands in praise, and Simon thinks to himself that it's a good way to end group. The best it's been in a long time.

Until her voice cuts through the air. "You forgot me," Lucy says, causing Simon to flinch. There's a bite to her voice, clear anger. "You're all sharing your bloody hearts out and forgot me."

The therapist turns to her. "Did you want to go? You're usually as equally quiet," he reminds her. "Were we to know you wanted to go? Do you want to go now?"

"Oh, yeah, I want your bullshit attention now. Why not go back to Simon, he's making such great progress."

"We commend progress in the group," he counters. "We'll do the same for you. The floor is yours if you wish."

Simon slowly turns his head to look at her, mentally cringes at that curled upper lip of hers. It's coming, that anger, he knows it. He can see it. The only question is how it'll get released.

Lucy sits up straighter in her chair and folds her hands in her lap, looking around the room. "You know what I'd say? Because god knows I only get the opportunity now that she's done for. I'd be sure to tell Sarah I'm not sorry that she's dead."

"Lucy!" Doctor Jacob's cries, quickly standing up from his chair. But it's of no use, because it only takes Emma all but two minutes to be up and out of her chair, stalking towards the spot Lucy sits. There's a look in her eyes that can't be anything more than pure vengeance. She's been waiting for this moment, Simon thinks. Which is why he does one thing, and that's slide his chair over so he's not in the middle of what's about to go down.

Before the therapist can get between it all, Emma's snatching Lucy up by the front of her shirt and pulling at her until Lucy stands. And then Emma's got her face right up against Lucy's, so their foreheads are touching. "Say it again," she growls.

Simon stares up at them from his chair and watches as Lucy smiles. "You know who it was," Lucy whispers. "Not. sorry."

It's the sound that resonates in the entire room, Emma's hand coming down hard on Lucy's cheek. And before anyone can even react to that first blow, Emma's smacking her again. Simon manages to count a good three in a minute span. Lucy throws her hands up to try and block the blows, but Emma manages to knock her hand away almost each time until they're a mess of limbs flailing back and forth in an attempt to hit and not be hit. Only then does Simon see the therapist's hands come around Emma's waist and yank her back.

"Enough!" he's saying, but Emma's voice is louder than his.

"You bleeding cunt!" she shrieks. "I will fucking bladder you!" Emma strains as hard as she can against the therapists arms to get at her. If the circumstance were different, Simon might find it amusing. Emma's not a very big girl, rather tiny, actually, and yet here she was giving a grown man a run for his money as far as strengths went. She's a lot tougher than he'd have thought, nearly taking the therapist to the ground with her in her struggle to get at Lucy.

In that time, Lucy has stood up and is clutching her flaming red cheek. She's breathing hard enough for Simon to hear while he holds his own breath, waiting for her to turn on him. Instead, she keeps her focus on Emma. "I'm going to make you-"

Simon takes that as his cue to jump up from his chair and grab Lucy by the arm, beginning to pull her towards the door.

"Wait!" the Doctor calls, still trying to keep hold of Emma. "Where are you going! Stop!"

"Let 'em go, man," he manages to catch someone say before he reaches the door. The rest of the room seems to be in a state of perpetual silence. He can't blame them, how would they expect one to act in this sort of mad situation? If he's being honest, the quiet is probably better. He doubts the therapist would be able to handle anything else at the moment. Not that it matters too much because a few seconds later they're out the door of the therapy room, and whatever happens once he's gone is no concern to him. All that matters is the way Lucy yanks at his arm once their outside until he lets go.

"What are you doing?" she yells at him.

"What are you doing?" he yells back, choosing to ignore that there are now nurses running down the hall towards them.

"Grown a set of balls have you," she sneers at him. "Must have been all that heartfelt talking you did today!"

"Is that what this is? Y- you're jealous that I shared with someone other than you? So you decide to say the one thing you _know _is going to upset people? Is that what you do?"

"Like you don't fucking know!" she screams, almost getting a good slap at him if he weren't to throw his hands up. "I'll ruin her, you know," she breathes out, glaring at him.

His stomach lurches, bile rising at the back of his throat. "You wouldn't."

"I would," she shoots back. "Just ask the other girl. Oh, wait."

"D- don't," he says, voice catching at the back of his throat. "Don't hurt her. Please."

"Why? Because you like her? To hell with you and your _feelings_, Simon. When are you going to learn that not everything is about YOU, huh?"

He swallows hard and takes a few breaths to calm himself, but it really isn't working. All he can think about is how angry he is, and that one thought on a constant loop in his head that perhaps he should do something to her before she can hurt anyone else. Before it can even become a possibility. He thinks of how easy it would be right now, just this moment, to reach forward and push her. Just one good knock backwards. The floors are still slick with wax after being cleaned. She'd surely lose her footing. A good knock to the head, that's all- He pauses on the thought as Lucy's voice rings out in his head, about how people slip. It makes him feel even more sick than he did before.

What is she turning him into?

"You!" One of the nurses says coming up to them. "What in the world is going on?"

"Disagreement," Lucy huffs at her.

Simon watches as two nurses go into the therapy room, and a moment later he can hear Emma yelling again. He flinches at the sound and slinks back a few steps, looking over at the nurse. Then the words come out, almost on their own. "Lucy started a fight." It surprises how easy it came to him, the courage to say it, the almost... lack of care of what she may do to him at this point. She deserves punishment, he thinks.

"That is not true!" Lucy snaps.

"Ask the therapist," Simon counters.

"Oh, we will. Soon as we get your pal into solitary."

"What?" he blanches. "N- no, you can't... she didn't-"

"We got the call about an attack-"

"That was me," Lucy butts in. "She hit me."

Just then, the two nurses that went into the room come out one at a time, pushing the door open, with Emma kicking in their arms and yelling her head off. "Let go of me" she screams. "Let go."

"Watch her head," one tells the other as they move through the door and let it go.

Emma seems to drop all her weight, managing to pull at their arms for one moment. Then she's being hoisted up and pulled down the hall.

"Don't do that," Simon says. "Let her walk. She'd walk. Y- you don't have to do that to her."

"Oh, shut up!" Lucy cuts in.

At that moment, the therapist comes walking out the room. He turns and spots them and his face hardens. "You wanna tell me what that was about?" he asks, looking between the both of them, but mostly Simon. He assumes it's because the therapist assumes he's more likely to talk. That's not the case in this situation. In fact, Lucy does most of the talking, pleading her own case.

Simon looks up at the ceiling with his jaw clenched tightly until he hears Lucy being told, "the only reason you're not sitting in your own solitary room is because I can't punish you for a feeling, no matter how crass it may be. Emma was in the wrong here."

"Emma was not," he tells him tersely.

"Simon," he says with a sigh. "I get wanting to defend your friend, believe me. The fact is, Emma attacked Lucy. She was in the wrong, and we can't over look that. There are consequences for actions. Lucy-"

"It's _Lucy's _fault," he yells, the sound resonating down the empty hall. And even then it doesn't feel like enough. After weeks upon weeks of dealing with her, all the pent up emotions that have accumulated while dealing with her, it's finally taken its toll. All he wants is someone to _listen _to him. To really listen to what he's saying. He's had enough of it, being over looked or disregarded.

The therapist stairs at him wide- eyed for a moment before composing himself. "Simon, I get that you're upset, but we have to take care of the well- being of our patients. Lucy didn't deserve-"

It's almost as if his conscious shuts itself off and he watches his actions outside himself. All rational thought seems to disappear as he watches his own hands strike out and connect with the therapists chest. All it takes is that one moment of disconnection and suddenly he's watching the therapist stumble back and his head connect with the door behind him. Then time seems to speed up and he's hearing Lucy gasp and staring at his own hands in front of his body and the therapist cursing and rubbing at his head before calling for the nurses.

"I'm sorry," rushes from between his lips as he steps forward to give aid.

"Well, that's brilliant, Simon," Lucy says from behind him.

"Shut up," he barks over his shoulder at her, reaching out for the therapist. Simon gets his hand close enough for him to shrink away, holding his hand up.

"I didn't mean it," Simon tells him, a lump forming at the back of his throat. "I really... I don't know why..."

Simon hears the nurses coming before he sees them. They're different from the ones who took Emma away, he notes when they approach and he gets a look at them, but two men just the same. Both are rather intimidating in size and appearance, however. Simon knows of them as the two staff who usually take down the severe cases in the unit. They're who get called when someone thinks things might get out of hand.

"What happened," one of them asks the therapist.

"Simon has just forcibly placed his hands on me," he tells them.

"You want us to get security, too?"

He shakes his head. "I don't think that will be necessary. Just the same, I feel he should be taken down to the other solitary room for the night."

Simon's heart seizes in his chest. "N- no. No. I already said I was sorry. I- I didn't mean it, I swear."

The therapist stands up, still rubbing at the back of his head. "Consequences and actions," he tells Simon, giving him a look that he might compare to some form of sympathy. "It's just for the night," he adds.

When one of the nurses goes to grab at his shirt, Simon jerks back against the wall. "Please," he says to them, half hating the sound of desperation in his voice, but being too frightened to care. He can already feel the air leaving his body in shallow breaths as his anxiety takes over. He battles against the panic attack as one of the males asks him if there's going to be a problem. Simon shakes his head. "I just... I don't want to go."

"Rules are rules," the other ones says. "Now you can either come peacefully, or you can get the same treatment the last one got and be dragged there."

Simon winces looking between the two of them and imagining how much damage they could actually do to him if he were attempt to fight back. Deciding its probably not worth it, he sighs and steps away from the wall. He flinches when each grab hold of one of his arms.

"I don't think that's necessary," he hears the therapist say behind them. "I'm sure Simon is willing to walk there without a problem."

Simon glances at each of them again and they slowly release his arms. "Lets go," they tell him.

He swallows hard and hangs his head before shuffling forward, feet feeling like they're filled with sand. A bit down the hall, Simon makes a point to turn his head and look over his shoulder, despite the inward battle in his mind that tells him he shouldn't, and he only ends up proving himself right.

Lucy raises her hand and gives a small wave, smiling.

...

**Deep breath**

**hit that review button, lemme know if you will**


	11. The Noble art of letting go

**Still don't own it**

**nearly there, folks **

**see you at the bottom  
**

**...**

The silence of this room is unnerving, on levels Simon didn't even know was possible. Nothing pierces these walls, not even the usual screaming he hears from the halls in his own room. There's no footsteps, no talking, nothing. He has no way of knowing whether it's still night or dawn has finally broken on a new day. It's just him and a room so quite it runs deep down to the farthest pits of his body. It's like a weight on his bones.

He lies on the floor on his back, hands beneath his head, and stares up at the ceiling. He's been like this for a while, stiff and unmoving. When they first put him in, he'd paced for a while, trying to ignore the rumbling in his gut and the realization that he wouldn't be eating dinner. It fueled his restlessness. He'd paced until his legs were screaming with pain... and paced more. It was the only way to keep him focused and from thinking about everything that he'd have hours to let plague him.

Finally, when the ache in his side and legs got too much to handle, he'd sat down against the wall and drew patterns in the soft, padded floor. The material was split in enough spots to make designs that he could find and trace for a while. Long enough to find every one and get bored of that, too.

The worst of it in the beginning was having no clock, no way to know how much time had gone by, which he supposes is the whole point of the room anyway. With no clock to look at, he had no way of knowing how much time had passed, so there wasn't something to focus his energy on... like when he'd be getting out. He wouldn't have to spend all his time thinking about that. It gave him the opportunity to relax, to settle down and breathe.

After all the pacing and tracing, what else was there to do other than lie down and get lost in his own thoughts? In essence, there were a lot of things he needed to reflect on, and having the time to himself definitely gave him that. Yes, the aloneness of it is somewhat maddening, but he supposes he's grown so accustomed to that feeling that there's no point in dwelling on it for long periods of time. It needs to be accepted at this point. Isolation for someone who's always felt that way could almost be seen as an amusing Irony.

Letting out a heavy breath, he closes his eyes and tries for the dozenth time in the past... who knows how long, to finally get some sleep, as pointless as he knows it is. Every time he's tried, he gets right to that point of drifting away and some nagging thought will stir him wide awake. At the moment, of course, its Emma that keeps him from getting there.

Simon thinks of her in her own room and wonders how she's doing, if she's okay. He's heard of other people who've gone into solitary and still found ways to hurt themselves, and he hopes she wouldn't be someone to do the same. But who knows, really? Past the small, personal conversations they've shared, Simon doesn't know much about Emma's mental health. He does know she tried to kill herself, though, and it's enough to make him worry. And it's strange to him how he never spent much time thinking about that detail until this point. After all the times they'd been around each other, after that first acknowledgement of what she'd done to herself, they never really talked about it again.

It's almost as if that was their unspoken agreement. The way he and Jack never really talked in great details about their experiences, the way Lucy never told him anything about why she was in the unit. There's a link there, he thinks. These people and their experiences and how they can talk about it without really talking about it, or not talking at all, and yet they still somehow ended up having things to bond over. It didn't have to always be about the sad things they'd gone through.

Yet they all carried themselves differently. Jack, in spite of the trials he'd faced, had found humor in everything and has used that until his last days to make it through. Emma... she uses care and kindness. No matter the pain in her heart, there's a smile on her lips and a warmth to her voice. She has how good of a person she is to make it through things. But Lucy? Whatever it may be that happened, she molded it into something much different than the others. Hers is anger and venom and poison. It's cutting down others to make herself feel better. He just doesn't understand it, and wonders if he ever will. Lucy is an enigma, an untouchable question of why and what and how. She reaches out to him like he's air, because she sucks it all from the room. She takes it all away from him, from anyone she's around, and then comes about begging for more. It's like she can't live as herself. It makes him question, what would see someone him for without knowing what he's been through? What would they see when they look at him? What did he turn his experiences into?

What has Emma seen when she looks at him? He thinks back on the times they've spent together, trying to recall if there were ever any looks she might have given him that would give him an idea of what she thought, but nothing comes to mind. She smiled when she was around him, she laughed, she said kind things. Maybe there wasn't anything bad to find? Surely someone as good as her could see it?

He imagines her, like him, alone in a similar prison and his chest hurts. She was too good to be in a place like this. The entireity of this place. Sure, she'd made a mistake but, to him, it was acceptable at the time. Lucy had spent so much time terrorizing people, it was only a matter of time before it got back to her. He recalls with perfect clarity the sound of that slap across her face, and how it'd had made him fee to see it happen. He'd been almost... happy?

This confuses him. Simon's not a violent person, he's not hateful, he doesn't have it inside him to want people to hurt. Not when he'd been a victim of those things himself for so long. But he wonders, thinks real hard, about all those times someone had done something bad to him, and now he's seeing a different side of things. He's wondering what might have happened to those people that were mean to him to make them do those things. Emma had been pushed to snap over just words.

What might have happened with the kids who bullied him?

His mum had said that Matt's dad cheated on his mum. Simon had been good friends with Matt once. Matt never talked to him about his mum and dad, though. Something Simon never thought to question until this moment. When he would go to Matt's house, they'd hide away in his room and play video games. But there was one time...

He recalls one summer day after school, going over to Matt's to hang out, only to have the door answered by his mum who told him Matt wasn't there. But she'd invited him inside to wait for him, and he'd gone along with it.

Matt's mum was nice. She'd given him a plate of cookies and milk and they talked about his own home life, and Simon was happy with it all. His family were nice people, but never overly affectionate. He couldn't think of a time when he'd been doted on at home. But Matt's mum had done that for him.

The experience wasn't so bad that he'd have a lasting impression of it, he thinks. But now he remembers. Now he lets himself think about how Matt's dad had come stumbling through the front door, giving Matt's mum a frieight so she'd made a noise. Which alerted his dad to where they were. Simon had watched him trip over himself coming into the kitchen and head straight to the fridge. Simon didn't know much about what being drunk was, then, but he knew something was off by the way he slurred when he talked, asking where his drinks were. And Matt's mum, she'd stood there against the counter so still, looking between him and her husband with this sort of panicked expression in her eyes.

Matt's dad, not finding what he was looking for, had slammed the fridge shut loudly. He remembers how he'd jumped. How Matt's mum said something about going to the market and getting some more, and his dad suddenly yelling. He'd yelled very loudly. He had stalked across the kitchen towards Matt's mum very fast. And he remembers how fast he'd jumped up from the chair he was sitting in and ran. Ran all the way out of the house and down the street, finding Matt along the way. He'd invited him back to his house that day. They walked past Matt's house along the way, and he thinks... maybe he'd heard someone crying? They hung out in Simon's room and watched T.V with no cookies or milk, and Simon had never said a word to Matt.

Why had it taken him all these years later to think about that? Simon sits up and puts his hands over his face, pushing the hair back from it. He lets out a heavy breath as his mind processes all this. Maybe Matt had his own reasons for being how he was? Maybe his parents played a part in that? It didn't excuse his treatment towards him, he knows, but maybe it's enough to know there's an answer for why it ended up like it did? He could accept what happened to him more, if he knew that it wasn't just his fault. It'd make him feel better knowing its not.

The only problem is that he doesn't know. Matt having a horrible home- life, with a possibly abusive father and a depressed mother, would be a little easier to accept than going with the idea that maybe Matt was just a selfish jerk who wanted to see him suffer. And he'd really made him suffer, he thinks. Look at where he was, after all. Look at what he had done to himself because of those things.

Does Matt sit in his own room at his new home, with his new life, and ever think about him?

Why is it, all this time later, he's still dwelling on these things? Surely Matt doesn't think about him, and Jack went away so he'll never think of him again, and Emma's probably dealing with too much of her own afflictions to be thinking of him. So where does that leave him? With Lucy? He can just imagine how thrilled she must be with herself. She's always been rather self absorbed, so she's probably not concerned with him, either.

How did it get this far, and how does he move past it all? Doctor Lewis said once that, the only way to move forward is to let go. But what does that mean? Isn't letting go of all that, somehow letting go of himself in a way? Not that he even knows who he is anymore, anyway.

Lying back down on the floor, he closes his eyes with a huff. Hunger and over thinking has lead to its own kind of exhaustion. His lids and body suddenly feel heavier than they did before. In fact, he thinks he could finally fall asleep. Just let the weight take over and slip away. And he's just about on that track when there's a loud clicking sound, the first thing he's heard since he got into this room. Then the creak of a door, and a sliver of light is hitting his eyes.

Simon sits up in time to see one of the nurses poking their head in. "Time's up," she tells him. "You can come out now."

He can't recall a time he's ever gotten to his feet so quickly. One of his legs has fallen asleep, though, so he stumbles a bit at first before steadying himself as tingles erupt under his skin. He has to squint as he gets close to the light, eyes being so adjusted to the dark by then. The first thing the nurse does when he gets outside the room is check him over, undoubtedly to make sure he hasn't caused any harm to himself. "I'm fine," he tells her.

"Nice to see you're still feeling as vocal as you were yesterday," she replies. "How was it?"

"I'm hungry," he answers.

She smiles, one of the firsts she's ever given him in his time here that he can recall. "All right. Well, how about a nice shower before breakfast? Sound good?"

"I've never heard of anything better," he tells her, giving a small grin in return.

It's funny to him that after just one night in that room, the unit suddenly feels like its own kind of freedom.

...

He goes without a sweatshirt, nothing hiding the last remnants of his bruise or the now fading scars on his arms. He makes sure to keep his hair to the side and off his face. He brushes his teeth and practices smiling in the mirror for a good ten minutes before leaving the loo. He does these things and he tells himself that the only way to make a change is to try and change himself. Being in solitary seems to have put things into perspective for him, like how he never wants to go back. And doing his best ensures that's not likely to happen ever again. He'll give them anything they want, he's just glad to be out. He even makes sure to say hello to the nurses at the nurses station when going past them on his way to the eating hall and when they say it back, he doesn't even flinch. Progress, he tells himself.

Progress that seems to fall apart as soon as he arrives at the eating hall. Instead of doing the usual and looking inside to see where he'd sit, Simon heads straight to the line to get his food. Of course, he runs into someone from the previous day's group therapy session. At first he smiles and tries to play along, but the minute they bring up the incident, his mind shuts down. He feels that familiar since of prickling anxiety and ends up inching back towards the wall. It makes him nervous, all the questions, being so on the spot. And it doesn't help that a few others are staring at him. He ends up shuffling by quickly, missing out on half the decent food they have put out for once. He doesn't even get any bananas, and they're his favorite.

Inside the hall, his first instinct is to seek out Lucy, like he's done so many times before. It frustrates him, this habit he hasn't begun breaking himself of, just yet. He wonders how many more times he'll find himself searching for her, and how long it'll take before he stops doing it.

It doesn't take him long to spot her, back facing away from where he stands, alone at a table by the window. The table he usually sees Emma sitting at, he realizes. It's amazing to him how fast his appetite disappears and his stomach flips as he wildly scans the room for her.

"She's in therapy," someone says close to his ear, making him jump and nearly spill his tray. He scrambles to make sure nothing falls and turns to find Betty from group standing there. She gives him a shy smile. "I know you're looking for her. She got to take her meal to therapy." At his obvious frown, she tells him, "But she looked fine!"

Simon's gaze darts to where Lucy sits and his spirits sink. He glances back at Betty and nods before starting forward.

"You don't..." Betty starts to say and he pauses in his tracks, turning to look at her again. She gives him a small shrug. "You could sit with us... if you want."

"Us," he slowly replies.

She bobs her head. "Me and Ben and Mike... couple other ones who don't attend group that often. They can be twats, but they're non- bothersome so..." She trails off with another shrug, looking everywhere but his face. He can tell her reaching out to someone else is causing her stress. She'd done well in group, in a controlled environment. But then, so had he. Outside of that is different, its new. It means forming attachments and talking and sharing, and he's sure that's something that none of them are ready for. Still, he can't help but look at her and, much like with Lucy, find parts of himself in her. He's not sure whether or not that's a good thing. But even so, it means not having to subject himself to anymore time with Lucy than is necessary.

"All right," he tells her.

Betty ends up leading him to a table in the center of the room. He slides in next to her, only slightly anxious at how close in proximity they are to one another, a thought that quickly goes away as Ben takes notice of him sitting with them. He quirks a brow and smiles, which makes Simon smile in return.

"Don't mind Mike," he tells him, jabbing his thumb in Mike's direction. "He's started reading twenty thousand leagues under the sea the other day, haven't gotten him to take his nose out of it any time there's free time."

"It's a good book," Simon replies, which makes Mike peak up at him from the corner of his eye and crack a small grin.

"So you're into that sci- fi stuff?"

Simon nods and glances back at the table. "I have a Daelik figurine in my room... back home."

"Never could get into Doctor Who," Betty says, picking at her fruit cup. At Simon's wide- eyed expression, she giggles. "What? I suppose now you'll try and sell me on why I should give it another go?"

Simon nods, and suddenly his mouth is taking off ahead of his brain as he launches into all the details he knows about the show in his attempt to gain her interest. Both Ben and Betty listen intently to his every word, with Mike even jumping in every so often to comment on something he likes. By the time he gets done explaining, they're calling off Breakfast and Simon's almost disappointed it's over. He also takes note that not once did anyone bring up the drama that happened with Lucy, as if it wasn't in their minds at all. Something that surprises and relieves him all the same. Why had he ever thought to listen to Lucy about not interacting with anyone else? Look at what he'd been missing out on!

"Meet back for lunch?" Ben asks, getting up from the table.

Simon isn't even embarrassed by his enthusiastic yes.

...

He used to be so scared of this room when he'd first started coming in, he thinks. Now that the absolute fear has passed, only the slightest of anxiety remaining in its place, Simon doesn't feel so uncomfortable. Sure, he still hasn't quite gained the ability to entirely relax, that much noticeable from how straight he sits on the couch with his hands placed carefully on top of his lap, and the way his eyes will dart around to everything in the room. But it isn't nearly as bad as it was when even the thought of stepping inside would send him into a panic attack.

The only thing he isn't sure he'll ever grow accustomed to, is the way Doctor Lewis stares at him behind those thick glasses. He doesn't seem to get the urge to run away as fast as he can like he did before, but he'll still get that rolling chill up his spine when she starts talking.

"I'm letting you take the floor today," she tells him. "Since we both know you already know I heard about what happened. So far I've heard every point of view of the incident, but I'd like yours if you're okay with it."

Simon swallows and nods, looking everywhere but her face, and lets it all come pouring out. By the time he's finished, he's counted two times Doctor Lewis has flipped the pages in her notepad while writing. As always, it makes him curious.

"Interesting," she says a moment later, adjusting her glasses.

"What?" he asks, his voice sounding rather thick with emotion he dare not show.

"Well... so far, every story is the same, from all parties. Minus one."

"Lucy," he replies in a hushed voice, looking away from her and to the couch beside him.

"Yes," she answers. "Good guess, though I'm sure you didn't have to think too hard about it, am I right?"

"I thought you said we can't discuss other patients," he retorts, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

She pinches her brow. "Did you not want to talk about her once before? Why shut down now when given the opportunity?"

She has him, knows she has him. He can see it in the way she tilts her head, with that look of accomplishment in her eyes. The same look she gets when she manages to make him talk any other time. She knows he'll talk now. Which is why she doesn't pause long, adding, "All parts of her story added up. All but one."

"Which part," he hurriedly responds.

"What happened with the therapist, Simon?"

Recollection of his hands connecting with the therapist's chest and the sound his head made hitting the door comes back to him and he feels a little sick, hanging his head. "I pushed him," he replies.

"So why would Lucy try to take the blame for your actions?"

He jerks his head up to look at her, splutters a, "What?"

"Why would Lucy, knowing I already knew the truth, lie and say she pushed Mister Jacob's? Why would she try and take the blame for a crime she did not commit? Especially knowing where a lie like that would have gotten her placed. How was your night alone, may I ask?"

Simon licks his suddenly dry lips, the air feeling like it's slowly being sucked from the room. "Fine," he answers, swallowing hard.

"Breathe," she reminds him. "If talking about solitary upsets you, we can discuss something else. Keep that in mind."

He nods and inhales deeply, letting out a loud breath a moment later. He'd never tell her that it's not talk of solitary that's gotten him so worked up, but rather being hung up on what she said about Lucy. "I don't know why she'd lie," he manages to tell her. "I don't... know."

"You seemed very surprised when I told you this news. What with you and Lucy being friends-"

"We're not friends." He takes in a sharp pull of air between his teeth and mentally berates himself for letting that come out. Too far, he tells himself. He's giving her too much.

"Oh," she replies, raising a brow. "I was... under the assumption that you two were quite close, what with the way Lucy praises you when she and I talk. I contributed that to her wanting to lie for you, naturally. If you're not friends... where's the motivation?"

"She talks about me?"

"Quite a bit, yes."

Simon bites at the inside of his cheek and looks up at the ceiling. "We're... I didn't mean..." He lowers his head and shakes it, clenching his jaw. "We're sort of close... like friends, I guess."

"But you don't feel that way, as of late?"

He pinches his brow and rubs his sweaty palms against his pants. "What do you mean?"

"Your argument in the hall yesterday. The events leading up to you pushing Mister Jacob's," she reminds him, giving a pointed look.

"I was defending-"

"Emma, yes," she cuts in. "I know. An understandable action. But still not an explanation for such an argument. According to the nurses, there was a lot of yelling, heated yelling. I'd venture this isn't the first time you've had this sort of conflict."

He gets somewhat annoyed by how on point she is. How is he supposed to lie about how it's really been if Doctor Lewis keeps beating him to the punch with facts? It only makes it that much harder to hold everything back. It's extremely difficult, but he manages to bring a passive look to his features after a long pause, taking a few deep breaths. Simon looks back at her and shrugs. "We don't agree about... certain things. It happens."

"True," she says with a nod. "But then, that still doesn't give us an answer about her attempting to cover for you."

"I don't know," he tells her, shaking his head. "Maybe..." Maybe it's another game, another trap? Maybe she genuinely feels bad about what she said and this was her way of letting him know that? Doubtful, but a nice thought to entertain for about two seconds. "I don't know," he repeats. "Aren't we supposed to be talking about me?"

"You _want _to talk about you." She leans forward in her chair, pushing her glasses up her nose and eyeing him for a moment.

He lets out a heavy breath. "Yes."

Sitting back and opening her notebook, she smiles at him. "All right, then."

There's a look in her eyes, one he recognizes as a silent agreement that this isn't over, just yet. Maybe she won't bring it up again in this session, seeing as they're running out of time he notes after a brief glance at the clock, but he doesn't doubt it'll come again. When she's found a way to break down more of the wall he's surrounded himself in, like she's done with so many other topics they've discussed in the past few weeks. He knows it'll come back to this... and that fear he thought he'd let go of suddenly comes slithering right back in.

It's all about preparation, he tells himself. He'll just have to be ready for when it comes. Until then, he puts on his best face and proceeds to tell her about his morning meal with the members from group, hoping it's enough to appease her.

Still unsure if it's enough to appease himself.

...


	12. Please bury me with it

**I don't own Misfits or Simon, but I've definitely had fun writing him**

**This one may sting a little folks, sorry**

**see you at the bottom**

**...**

As far as uncomfortable quiet goes, Simon's never been so acquainted with that saying as he is right this moment, sitting across from his father in the visiting room. What with his mum being off visiting their nan in the facility, and Rebecca staying after school for a project, it's left Simon in quite a precocious situation. Alone in a room with his father for the first time in months. Is it wrong that he almost wishes he'd faked sick to get out of it. He'd thought about it, really, when the nurses told him that his dad had come on his own to see him. He was in the eating hall, he's sure it wouldn't have taken much to convince them that his lunch wasn't sitting well with him.

If he's being honest, the only reason he made the effort to go was because the pretty nurse was the one to lead him to the room, and it gave him a little time to make small talk with her- something he hadn't done before. She was less restricted today than ever before, talking in hushed whispers about the latest gossip in the nurses station- something about one of the nurses having a crush on his group therapist.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," she'd told him.

"I can keep a secret," he'd responded, and she'd smiled quite a bit at that.

He's been thinking about that since he got in the room with his dad. But not in the way one would expect. He thinks about how much it makes him miss talking to Emma, watching the way her mouth moves when she laughs or smiles. She hadn't been at lunch, either, and he's been holding out hope for getting a chance to see her at dinner time. Though it's diminishing more as the day presses on. He knows he's more apt to be faced with talking to Lucy over her, and that thought is enough to make him scowl.

"Simon?"

He blinks and looks up from the table to find his dad staring at him with a crinkle around his eyes. His worried expression, his mum always called it. Simon's always thought of it as that look his dad gets right before he's about to ask something that will make him feel uneasy. Which he does.

"How are you?"

"Fine." His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat. "Good," he adds.

"You're looking well," he tells him, clearing his own throat. "Healthier. You're eating right?"

Simon nods. Three times a day without fail. Not that one could ever consider the food here healthy, but its managed to keep him alive these past couple months and that has to count for something.

"Still taking your medicine?"

He nods again.

"Good, good."

Could this conversation get anymore awkward?

"Your sister says you've got a girlfriend now?"

Of course it could. Simon tightens his jaw a bit and imagines, for a moment, strangling his sister for opening her mouth. She's the only one he's said anything to about what's happened in the unit, and she sells him out to their parents? Besides, he'd never referred to either Lucy or Emma as his girlfriend. He'd never do something like that.

"No," he answers briskly.

"Oh," his dad replies, reaching up and adjusting the collar of his shirt. "Perhaps... perhaps she heard wrong."

"Perhaps."

"But you've made friends? People you can... connect with?" There's something in the way he says it, this sort of soft waver to his voice that Simon can't recall hearing since he was a boy, that stirs something in him. It isn't until that moment that he notices just how aged his father has started to look in only such a short time since they last visited. Rebecca had said he'd been working more to pay for his stay here in the unit. One more thing to add to the list of things that Simon has caused, another way to burden people. And that's the last thing he'd ever want.

The most he can do is give him _something_. "I've made... friends," he says, looking at him.

There seems to be an almost instant shift in his demeanor. The way his dad sits up straighter in his chair and smiles. Simon can't recall the last time he saw him smile. Perhaps its enough to let him have this brief moment of believing that his son is getting better, that it's been worth it. Simon wouldn't dare let him think otherwise.

"I'm glad to hear that," he replies. "I've been... concerned." He sighs. "Scared, if I'm being honest.

Scared? That's a first. Simon's always known his father as a strong, sturdy man. Hardly phased by things that would bother normal folks. He's sure he's never even seen his father stress about a bill. Perhaps he's more a suffer in silence kind of person? It could be where Simon gets it front. It's strange to him, this conversation he wouldn't have imagining happening, but suddenly is. And how unafraid of it he is himself.

Maybe this is another one of those starts to something new? He's already spent the time patching things up with his sister and his mum. There's probably still more to work through, he knows, but there's no doubt in his mind that they're in a better place now than when he first started out here. Time was doing the healing as far as his relationships went, at least he could say Doctor Lewis was right about that much. It only seems right that now would be the time to work on one of the last few pieces that will play part in him finally getting to go home.

Simon starts to tell him that he doesn't have to feel that way anymore, that he's going to be all right, and everything's going to be okay. All those things he's sure his father would want to hear, that he wants to fully believe himself... but all those words catch at the back of his throat as a shrieking scream pierces the air, causing both he and his father to jerk in their chairs.

"What in the devil was that?" his father asks, starting to stand from his chair.

"I don't know," Simon answers, eyes darting back and forth between him and the door. "Maybe it was someone acting out? That happens."

"No, no," he replies, fully standing from his chair. "That sounded like panic."

"I'm sure it's nothing," Simon tries again to reassure him. They had other things to concern themselves at the moment, as far as he was concerned. He was just getting ready to open up to him. Surely that held more president than someone throwing a fit- something that happened far too often. Why did things always seem to happen at the most inconvenient moments in this place?

"You're sure?" he asks, still looking a bit unnerved.

Simon nods and attempts to try again when the door to the room comes swinging open.

One of the nurses pokes her head in, her eyes widened. "Visits over, back to your room Simon."

"Now just hold on a minute," his father cuts in. "What exactly's going on?"

"Nothing to be concerned about," she breathes out. "Just standard protocol in an emergency-"

"Emergency?" his father interjects again.

"What kind of emergency?" Simon finds himself asking. At that exact moment, he sees them, the paramedics hurrying by. It's like his body moves of its own accord. One minute he's seated there, feeling rather panicked, the next he's out of his chair and moving towards the door, a strange burning curiosity to know what's going on. It's not the first time he's seen them here, but he knows they only get called in when it's something serious. Any other time they simply use their doctors on call. Medics show up when something really bad has happened.

His mind goes to Sara.

When he sees the police go past as he gets to the doorway where the nurse stands solidifies his suspicions. Simon pushes past her despite her protests and his father calling out behind him asking where he's going. "Get back here," the nurse keeps calling, but he's moving quickly down the hall behind the police, trying not to draw too much attention to himself.

"Back to your room," another nurse says as he briskly walks by her.

He nods and keeps walking, head now ducked against his chest. Other than his violation attack on the group therapist yesterday, Simon's never so openly broken a rule, and he becomes aware of the consequence of that as security goes by.

"What are you doing?" they call out as he passes. "Hey!"

Simon looks over his shoulder, yelling back, "I'm just seeing," as it seems to get louder the farther down the hall he gets. They turn quickly and start to follow, and he rushes to pick up the pace and keep up with the police, talking into their radios ahead of him. He gets close enough that he nearly knocks into them as they round a corner, and Simon stops dead in his tracks.

He's looking down a hall he's stood in dozens of times, the one that leads to the outside. And the group of people that have crowded around those open doors. The police hurry to the end of the hall and begin to clear people out of the way, clearly the reason they were called. People seem to be getting rather up in arms. Just then, one of the security guards gets a hold of his arm.

"Hey, boy," he all but yells at him. "When we call you-"

But Simon is tuning him out as his gaze locks on the person stood against the wall with a cop bent down talking to her. There's no mistaking that hair used as a curtain, despite her face being covered with her hands, Simon knows its her. Lucy. Two hands start grabbing at him but he jerks away, moving in a dead walk down the hall. When she pulls her hands away, something in his gut tightens so roughly he grabs at his shirt with a grunt. There are tears rolling down her face and she sobs something unintelligible.

A switch flips in his head as his mind starts screaming at how strange this all looks. Wrong, something is very, very wrong here. He nearly trips on his feet, still shrugging off security as they continue to grab at his arms. He's stronger than them in this moment, running on pure adrenaline. When he gets close to Lucy, she's nearly shouting his name.

Don't? Is she saying don't? Stop?

There's a whirring pounding against his skull as he moves forward, not stopping when he gets to the group of patients crowding around, choosing to push his way through them. Not even stopping when the police start trying to pull him back. He pushes and pulls and struggles all the way to those open doors where he can finally stare out at the open courtyard, watching the medics crowded around the benches.

It's like everything going on behind him becomes background noise with that one moment of a pause, a beat, an unimaginable moment waiting to happen. All it takes is that one medic obscuring his view moving out of the way and Simon is scrambling forward. Is the echoing scream that rings out his own? It's hard to hear over the shouting in his head that's telling him one thing over and over: _get to her, get to her, get to her. _Something a lot easier said than done as someone slams into him from behind, hands wrapping around his waist and dragging him down.

Simon's first instinct is to turn around and begin shoving at the police officer's face, which only results in having his hands restrained as they flip him over and start putting cuffs on him. He kicks and struggles against the cement as the metal slips around his wrists and locks into place. Straining his head up, he looks the few short away and watches the medics working on Emma. The corner of the table behind them is dripping bright red blood to the ground, where a large puddle has formed. His stomach lurches and he starts to gag and kick again.

"Flat line," someone calls out, it's a blasting white noise bouncing around the inside of his skull.

He starts kicking again.

"Calm down, calm down," someone's saying into his ear. "I don't want to have to take you in."

"That's not necessary," he hears someone say behind him, a female's voice. Doctor Lewis?

A sob escapes him, from somewhere deep inside his chest, so hard it's painful. He says her name once, twice, before relinquishing his fight and lying still, eyes glazed over with tears that won't stop falling. His chest is on fire, and there'd be no stopping this even if he tried his hardest. He can't breathe, he can't really think. All he knows is a few minutes later he can hear someone say, "Nothing," and he knows it's over. Feels it in his bones. All the more confirming when they load her onto that stretcher. They're still working on her, but he knows it's pointless. She's not going to come back, he thinks. Thinks he says it as they wheel Emma past him, and all he can do is stare at the turning wheels and the flutter of those white sheets as they go past, with this throbbing ache radiating through his entire body.

"Get him to his feet," Doctor Lewis tells them.

He barely finds the strength to mumble the word no. No, don't move him. Don't lift him up, don't make him stand. _Go away. _All he wants is to sink into the cement beneath him, let it cover him whole and soak him up and let him rot with the rest of this place. It hurts, god does it hurt.

They don't listen to him, of course. Two hands on each side of him come under his arms and begin to lift, and he struggles to his feet, legs feeling like there's no mass left in them, like it's fallen out of him somewhere on the ground where the rest of him wants to be.

"Simon," Doctor Lewis says quietly.

A sudden light blares across his vision, causing him to flinch dramatically and shrink back. It moves back and forth in front of his blurred eyes for a moment before turning off. Doctor Lewis slowly comes into his small line of vision.

"Simon, it's all right now."

Another sob bursts through his lips and he quickly hangs his head.

"I'm here," she tells him. "And I need you to be here with me. I know that's hard right now, but if you want to avoid the penitentiary or sedation I'm going to need you to take a few breaths and calm down. You're upsetting the other patients even more than they already are."

_Fuck the other patients_, comes a resonating yell from inside his head, unhindered, raw emotion. But out of his mouth comes a mumbled, "Okay," and he tries to do what she says and take a few deep pulls of air, but nothing really comes through. He nods instead, slowly because it currently feels like his brain is going to explode.

"We have to go inside now."

He's going on auto- pilot again, nodding when he should, doing what he's asked when he's asked, but the numbness in his heart is steadily working its way through the rest of his body until he's enveloped in it. He moves with an almost robot- like stance back to the doors of the unit. Once they're back inside, the police let him go, and under Doctor Lewis' assurance that it will be all right, they remove the cuffs that have been digging their way into the skin of his wrists. Simon keeps them there like that, however, behind his back. Probably a safer bet for them all as all Simon briefly considers giving anyone close by a good shove. His hands itch at the thought.

There's something building in him, something dark and terrible. He can feel it under his skin, crawling like leeches. _Lucy_, he thinks. Her name is a forked hiss on his tongue.

"What was that?" Doctor Lewis asks, putting her arm on his shoulder.

"My room," he breathes out. "I want... to go to my room."

"Simon, we need to talk about what you saw-"

"I want. to go back. to my room," he repeats, staring up at her from beneath his lashes.

She eyes him for a long moment before releasing a sigh and nodding. "Okay, all right. Lets get you back and I'll have one of the nurses bring you a cuppa. Sound good?"

Nothing sounds good. He shouldn't even have to say it, he thinks. He doesn't even respond, simply lets her put her arm around him and start leading him away. He tries to pretend he doesn't hear a cop say into his radio that she was pretty much dead on arrival. It's the only way he can make it forward when he legs are starting to buckle and bile is rising in his throat. He nearly sicks up on the floor when Lucy comes tearing down the hall towards him. Instead, he rushes to back up, tripping over his feet and nearly taking Doctor Lewis down with him.

"Don't," he says, but it comes out as more of a strangled cry. "Don't let her near me. Don't."

Doctor Lewis holds up her hand to the nurse and points towards Lucy. Simon watches as they rush towards her, catching her by the shirt and pulling her back.

"Not me," she's screaming at him. "Not me, not me, not me," and he closes his eyes tight and unclasps his hands behind his back, bringing them up to his ears and shoving his palms against them. He can't be sure how long he stays like that, but eventually two hands circle around his wrists and slowly pull his hands away. He opens his eyes hesitantly and finds himself face to face with Doctor Lewis.

"She's gone," she tells him. "Come on, it's all right."

Her delicate hold on his wrist is an anchor, keeping him weighted to this moment of horror that is his life, on the long walk back to his room.

_Let go_, he thinks. _Let go._

...

There's no mistaking the sound of the door handle clicking as it turns. When the door creaks open, he cringes and turns to his other side, facing away from it and towards the windows.

"Simon?" Doctor Lewis' gentle voice calls into his room.

"Go away," he mumbles from under the sheets, tightening them in his fists and pulling them closer to him.

"Simon, you need to get up. Your family is here to see you."

That fissure in his heart splits wide open again, for the hundredth time in the past few days. The other tears haven't even dried on his face yet, and already he can feel the return of them building up in his eyes and swimming there. He blinks hard and sniffles. Why can't they go away? Why can't everyone just leave him alone?

"I don't want to," he tells her.

The sound of her shoes clicking against the floor tiles as she comes farther into the room makes him flinch and sink further into the mattress. "Look, I understand this is a very difficult time for you, and I like to think I've been more than accommodating to that. But the fact is, you're still in the unit, and there are still things that aren't accepted. Like lying in bed for three days and not eating. Refusing to take your medicine. Not cooperating with staff. Simon, these are actions that aren't taken lightly here. The truth it, I don't want to have to put you through another evaluation, but I'm going to have to if this doesn't stop. It's not good for your health, physical or mental. I get that you're hurting-"

He sits up, dragging the sheets away from his body and turning to look at her. "Don't say that."

"Simon, you are not the first person to experience a loss of someone they care for. I'm in no way saying that diminishes what you are going through, or what you might be feeling, but life does not stop because of a death. Yours doesn't, and it shouldn't."

"What if I want it to," he mutters, reaching up and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hands. He pulls them away and drops them into his lap, looking at her with heavy exhaustion pressing down on his entire body.

Doctor Lewis raises her brows and steps closer to his bed. "I'm going to choose to pretend that didn't sound a lot like a suicide threat. You're smarter than that, I know you are. You know what those kind of words mean."

"What does it matter," he says with a small shake of his head. "It's not like I'm getting out."

She sighs. "Well, if I could ever get you out of that bed, you'd find out that there are some things we need to discuss concerning that. Which is why your family is here. So if you would please..."

His heartbeat jumps. "Wha- are you saying..."

"Get up," she repeats. "Come down to my office when you're dressed."

...

It takes a lot of energy, a lot of strength, but he manages to drag himself from that bed and get dressed. He walks down the halls, trying his hardest to act like he doesn't feel their stares, hear their whispers. It's all he can take not to shout at them to just _stop_. He didn't ask for this. He doesn't want their sympathetic glances or words of pity. As if it wasn't enough that he's been able to hear them outside his room since it happened, with the nurses constantly shooing them away, telling them they won't find their answers there.

At least they have that much correct. Everything that used to have an answer suddenly means nothing to him. He couldn't give them what they want if he tried.

It feels like it takes years, but he finally manages to shuffle up to Doctor Lewis office door. It's partially open, and he pauses with his hand raised at the hushed talking inside.

"Accident," he hears Doctor Lewis say. "Not taking well. Psychologically damaging. Very concerned."

"How well... her," he manages to catch from his dad.

"Worried," he hears from his mum.

It's about as much as he can handle listening to before knocking loudly and pushing the door open. At the sight of him, his mum stands from the chair and moves towards him, her intentions clearly to be to touch him in someway. It's not something he's sure he could handle just now, so he quickly puts his hands up and he's thankful that she stops.

Her gaze softens and tears form. "Simon..."

He tightens his jaw and he has to look away, his eyes settling on Doctor Lewis. He clears his throat and tells her, "I came."

"That you did," she says with a nod, then holds her hand out to the chair in front of her. "No couch, come sit. Everyone come sit."

Simon's mum stands rather close to him as they walk to the desk. He curls into himself a bit and, making it to the chair, sits down slowly. Once there, he looks around until he spots Rebecca on the other side of his dad. He hasn't seen her look so upset since that first day at the hospital. Is it his fault? How much does she know? There are dozens of things he could be thinking of, just then, but the only thing coming to him are questions he wants to ask his sister. He didn't know he desired to ask anything until that moment, but he'd give anything to be in a room with just her. She sits forward in her chair and looks past their dad to him, raising her hand in a small wave. He lifts his own heavy hand and does the same.

"All right," Doctor Lewis says, drawing his attention back to her. "Now that we're all here together." She looks to Simon first. "I've already been here with your parents for the past half hour, so we've had time to discuss the things we need to. I want you to know that this isn't a meeting to talk about what's happened, it isn't to pressure you into saying anything, okay?"

He nods.

"We're in this room because, after some lengthy discussions over the past few days, a decisions about something has been made, and your parents wanted to discuss with you that decision." She waves her hand towards his parents, then. "Floor's yours."

Simon's father turns to him first, he's wearing his own glasses today, and Simon imagines that this is what it'd be like if his therapist had been a male. He apprehensively sinks back into his chair, as the look his father is giving him, that same look he gave him during their last visit, is a little much to take. He supposes it will take some time to adjust to, this look of care. "We got the chance to speak to the judge that looked over your arson case."

His eyes widen. He looks at his mum to see if something in her face will have answers for the questions already bubbling up in his brain, but she gives nothing away. He looks back at his father and swallows hard.

"As you know, it was determined that you would stay here for assessment until it could be decided whether or not you were competent and in a healthy place to be at home before your community service begins."

"Yes," he says slowly, wishing he'd hurry up and get to the point. In his mind, this is probably a waste of time. He's already anticipating being told that they're going to keep him here longer, so what's the point of discussing it further when he could already be back in his room pretending the outside world doesn't exist.

"Well, after talking with Doctor Lewis and coming to our own conclusions, we also talked to the judge and it would appear we're all on a similar page here in that... it's time you come home."

That whirring. pounding in his head comes back with a vengeance. "W- what?" he chokes out. He couldn't have heard that correctly. He must have missed something, some words when he tuned out for a minute. "What?" he asks again, heartbeat starting to accelerate at a level he hasn't felt before. It's slamming so hard against his ribs it's almost painful. He curls his hands tight against his stomach and looks between everyone. His mum's nodding isn't enough of a confirmation, so he turns to Doctor Lewis.

"I get to go home?" His own voice sounds so small and child- like to him.

"Breathe," she reminds him. "It was an arduous decision, no doubt. I fought quite an inner battle with myself over whether or not this was the right choice, considering right now's circumstances. But," she sighs. "You have endured quite a lot, Simon. And with the current state of affairs, I don't see how staying here will benefit you. I think, I can only hope, that your mental and physical well- being would be more likely to prosper being in the safety of your own home under the watchful eye and care of your parents."

"That means..."

"Your parents will be coming back here tomorrow to get you. You get to go home."

He's not quite sure what to do or say, then. He can feel his eyes welling up, and the trail of the tears that are now falling down his cheeks. He can hear his mum's own cry, and see his fathers approving nod from the corner of his eye, but it's so overwhelming he can't focus on one person or one thought. His blood prickles beneath his skin and the whirring scream in his head intensifies and he swears he'd pass out right then and there if it weren't for Rebecca's voice breaking through when she calls his name.

He hurriedly swipes at his eyes and looks back to Doctor Lewis. "Thank you," he tells her, voice cracking a bit. He catches only the bob of her head before turning to Rebecca.

She stares at him with those same blue eyes he's seen staring back at himself in the mirror so many times, and the tears wet on her cheeks, and the urge to hug her is so strong his hands ache with it. His mind is already getting ahead of itself with ideas of what they'll be able to talk about when they get out of here, how he'll finally get that real opportunity to show her how much her cares. How grateful he's been to her for being there for him when he's needed it most, even if he didn't know how much he needed it.

"I don't... want to upset you," she says, sounding nervous and unsure. "But I have something for you." She reaches beside her and pull up a small purse. He watches as she unzips it and carefully pulls something out, holding it in his direction a moment later.

It looks like a picture, he notes, reaching for it hesitantly. When it's in his hand, he knows he was right. He holds it image down and stares at the white blankness of the back of it.

"You don't have to look at it now. When we were here the other day... her dad... the room was being cleared out... they said I could have it."

_Her. _

Something in his gut twists, a hard lump forming at the back of his throat. He looks between Becca and the picture for a moment before telling her, "Not right now. I can't... b- but some time?"

She nods and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Would you mind if I was here... when you get picked up?"

"I'd like it... if you were here," he answers solemnly. He tries to give her a small, but it falls short on his lips. Rebecca doesn't seem to mind, though. He's grateful for that much.

"So, a big step happening," Doctor Lewis says. "A good one, we can all only hope. I'll be speaking to Simon before he goes home, of course. Our last session. And we'll all meet back here in the morning." She looks at him. "That's all."

Simon nods and watches as his father and mum stand from their chairs. He hurriedly gets to his feet, as well, nearly knocking his chair over in the process. In seconds he's throwing his arms around them and pulling himself tightly to them. And his heart still hurts, and he's still not sure if he's going to pass out, but he does know that it doesn't feel so bad when their arms circle around them.

In fact, for the briefest of moments, he could even say he forgets those things that are still hiding there under the surface, still threatening to drag him under.

...

There's only one last thing he has to do.

Late that night, after the provided comfort of being allowed to eat in his room for the day, something he doesn't fight doing, and the nearly two hour session he had with Doctor Lewis, only one thought still remains. His last unsettled business in the unit.

And then he's sure he'll be entirely free.

After spending an hour checking every so often, there's a clear in the hallway. He doesn't know where the nurse who was watching over his room went, but lucky for him she disappears long enough to give him opportunity. Opening his door, he slips into the hall, making sure to shut the door behind him. Then he's moving in a rush down it, checking over his shoulder every so often to make sure no one's following or caught him being out. He tries to ignore his racing heart as he navigates his way down the halls to the female corridors.

The coast stays clear long enough for him to make it to her room. Outside her door, Simon's whole body tingles and vibrates, a humming felt all the way to his toes. He reaches up slowly and places his hands on the doors for a brief second and, maybe its his imagination, but the wood feels incredibly hot on his palms. Her room is radiating a heat he's never felt before.

Taking a final deep breath, he slides his hands down to the handle and carefully turns it, only flinching slightly at its click. He hopes with everything in his that she didn't hear it as he pushes it open and stealthily moves inside her room. He wasn't wrong, he thinks, closing the door behind him. It's hot in here. An uncomfortable kind of humidity.

At a sigh from her bed, Simon freezes. He holds his breath and waits until the familiar sound of inhaled and exhaled air fills the room again before moving forward, and even then it doesn't feel very safe. He squints in the dark, seeking out the location of where her bed actually is, and tip- toes across the room until he reaches it.

The blankets fit tight to her form, outlining the position she's sleeping in. Her body is facing away from him, dark brown hair splayed across the pillow.

An involuntary reaction, tears fill his eyes. His blood has started to boil, the sight of her something he can hardly stand. Images of that bloody bench flash behind his eyes and he tightens his fingers into his fist, resisting the urge to lash out. This has to be done right, or he faces the chance of being caught, and that's not a risk he can afford to take.

Giving it another few minutes, enough time for him to regain his form, to put his feelings in check until the time is right, Simon reaches for her with a shaking hand. For one second, just one, the thought of what he's doing, and how wrong it is, goes through his mind. But calculated rage and bottled up emotion have already left their mark, a scar on his soul, and he's convinced himself that that's enough justification.

This is for Emma, he reminds himself.

It's for her and for anyone else who could ever have the unfortunate experience of having Lucy or someone like Lucy enter their life. It's for him.

His next actions are quick, one hand gripping her shoulder, he swiftly turns her body towards him and, before she has time to make a sound, he's clamping his hand tightly over her mouth. The first reaction he expected happens almost instantly. Lucy's eyes fly open, and she struggles to scream. He can feel her breathing through her nose, warm and heavy against the top of his hand. He knows what comes next, he already anticipated it before he even came in the room, and he's ahead of that, as well. When she swings at him with both hands, he moves down towards her legs. Still keeping his hand firm against her mouth, Simon scrambles onto the bed before she has a chance to start kicking.

It takes some effort, but he moves fast enough to be on the bed and straddling her legs in seconds. She manages to get a few small blows in at his arms and chest, but it's not enough to hurt him or stop his efforts. There's a back and forth moment there, she pushing at him while he uses his free hand to grab at her wrists, but eventually he's successful in getting them both and shoving them down and underneath him. Then he's fully seated on top of her, pinning her body and limbs to the bed.

Lucy struggles a few more minutes before, realizing it's useless, going entirely still and staring up at him with a wide, panicked expression. He's never seen her look so scared, and... he gets it, then. He understands how powerful that feels.

"You had to have known this was coming," he whispers. With his free hand, he reaches to his pocket and pulls out the picture Rebecca gave him, holding it out for Lucy to get a good look at. "This is your fault." It's hard to keep his voice deadpanned and empty when there are so many things he's feeling right now. At the hard jerk of Lucy's head, something he can only assume is meant to be a disagreement, he tightens his hand on her face. "What was it you said before... about this being a game?" He leans down so their faces are close together. "Checkmate."

Flipping the picture over, Simon sets it down on the pillow next to Lucy's head so he gets his first look at it. He'd spent all day with it burning a hole in his pocket, waiting for this moment. Emma's smiling widely in the picture, bright red lips, glowing eyes and a bow in her hair curly. She's so... alive here. It kills him inside, this reminder that she's no longer here. She'll never smile again, never laugh, never paint her nails or have another can of orange soda. He's reminded far too much of Emma saying the same things about Sara in group not even a week prior. Only a week, and she's gone.

Dead.

And it's all because of Lucy.

He's suddenly hyper aware of her breaths still falling against his skin, and her small body underneath his own, and all he wants is to be free of this. Absolved of all the pain she's put him through. Pain he fears may never go away, no matter how much time passes, no matter if someday his heart stops breaking over Emma, over everything. She'll always be there. And there's only one way to make that stop. He's convinced himself of this so entirely, he doesn't even have to think about it, his hand going to her throat. He doesn't even pause.

Simon takes all his pent up rage, all that repressed anger, and focuses it into the strength of his hand squeezing against Lucy's windpipe. He stares at it, tightening, and lets his mind take him to all the things he's had to face. All that he's had to endure. He thinks of Matt. Matt and all the hateful words and violence. The night at the club, and the night of the fire, and the beating on the pavement, his suicide attempt... the hospital and the unit and Jack and death and _Lucy_, and he squeezes harder thinking that maybe, just maybe if he does it enough it'll all _stop_. It'll finally fade away with this final act and he'll never have to face it again.

_But that wouldn't change it_, something tells him, then. It wouldn't undo it. Doing this to Lucy wouldn't take back what happened with Matt, it wouldn't make the fact that he'd been in this place disappear. It wouldn't bring back Jack, or Sara, or Emma. All it will let him do is forget for a little bit longer. Until it comes back to him like it always does.

And all he'll have then are these memories, and the grueling realization that... he's no different than the things he's so strongly condemned for this long.

_There's a rage inside of you_, Lucy had said to him. Yes, there is, he thinks. But there's also kindness and compassion and understand and _good_. This isn't really who he is, is it? Is this something he really wants to do, someone he really wants to be? He told the others in group once that he did things for a reason... but what's the reason for this? Other than his own sick gratification? What would doing this actually mean?

With a resigned, heavy breath, he quickly releases both his hands and raises himself up so he's no longer sitting on Lucy. He jumps when he goes to pull his hands to his body and Lucy quickly grabs hold of them, bringing them back to her throat.

She's still staring at him with those wide eyes, breathing heavily, but her voice has a bite to it as she tells him, "No. Do it."

He shakes his head.

"Do it," she repeats, struggling to open his now tightened hands in an attempt to put one back around her throat. "Don't fucking stop, you coward. DO IT!"

He shakes his head and pulls farther back, a small sob wracking his body. He doesn't even flinch when she hits him. Doesn't try to stop her when she does it again, and again, just lets her pound at his arms with her tiny fists until a sound leaves her, too. One he recognizes as a cry. Moving entirely off her body, Simon slumps down on the edge of the bed and buries his face in his hands, his whole body now shaking. Lucy's small cries become muffled against his shirt, forming a wet spot of tears.

They sit like that for a long time. Until noises become a silence and only the sound of their breathing fills the room. Simon sits there staring at the door, the weight of Lucy still heavy on his arm, and he thinks about everything that's just happened.

"I go home tomorrow," he finally says, though his voice lacks the proper emotion that is attached to those words. He feels so drained suddenly, so empty. "I thought you'd want to know."

Lucy pulls away, and he looks over his shoulder to find her staring up at him. She sniffles a couple times but says nothing, an act he isn't used to. She always has something to say, he expected she'd have the most to say about this. Her silence, to him, is more unnerving than anything she could come up with. A moment later, he watches, curiously, as she turns to her pillow and picks up the picture, holding it out to him.

Simon take it from her gently, like it's glass in his hands. Breakable, like Emma was in the end. He lets out a heavy breath and looks away from Lucy. When is he going to stop crying? "Why," he chokes out. "I know... you didn't like her. I know... she said mean things. But you did, too. And... and you're still here. Did you want to hurt me that bad?"

"I didn't," she answers quietly.

"Didn't... what?"

"Do it."

He scoffs, refraining ruining the pic in his hand by squeezing his fingers into his palms. "Don't..." He shakes his head. "Please stop lying."

Lucy releases a small, aggravated sounding grunt and rubs her hands over her face a couple times before pulling them away and looking at him again. "I wouldn't. Not about this. Simon," she reaches for his face and looks hurt when he pulls back. "Okay," she whispers. "I deserve that but... but Simon, I didn't kill her. It was... an accident."

"Like Sarah was an accident," he retorts, staring her down.

"I didn't do anything to Sarah, either. I wasn't even there when that happened."

"You said-"

"You've said it yourself countless times, Simon. I'm a liar. I lie. That's what I do. Why..." She lets out a dark laugh. "Why do you think I'm in here?"

"I wouldn't know," he fires back. "You've never told me."

"Because you would have hated me if I did."

As if all the other stuff wasn't enough of a reason, he thinks. At this point, he's sure whatever story she has about what got her in here would be the least crazy thing on a comparable list of all the things she's done.

"That scar on my neck, the one you asked me about" she adds a minute later, sighing. "I put that there."

His brows comes together. "Why?"

Her voice is almost a whisper as she replies, "A boy." She licks her lips and glances away, then, to the bed, like she can't bear to look at him. "A boy I _really _liked. Who I thought liked me. But... he lied, too. I liked what he said, and I liked what I let him do to me, but I didn't like it when he wanted to stop. He told everyone I was crazy. So... I showed him that I could be. I lied and said he hurt me." She peeks up at him. "I hurt myself and said he did it, but... everyone found out the truth. I had to go to court. They sent me here."

"They had a good reason," he says after a long pause.

"I know," she replies, her voice cracking. "I know that. I tell myself that all the time. I don't... know why I do the things I do, Simon. I don't know what's wrong with me. All I know is I can never seem to make it stop. I hurt that guy and got put here... I've hurt you."

"Sarah and Emma."

"No," she says loudly, then catches herself with a hand over her mouth.

Simon holds his breath, his gaze darting to the door as he waits for the possibility of them being caught. When it becomes apparent after a few minutes that they're safe, he turns back to Lucy. "Don't do that," he tells her.

She pulls her hand away with a muttered apology. Then she's grabbing hold of his face so he's forced to look at her. "Simon, I didn't hurt them. I didn't. I said horrible things and I acted horrible towards them, but I was _not _responsible for those things. They were an accident. I lied about Sara to make you feel bad, so maybe you'd think it was best you stop talking to Emma just in case. I didn't do that."

"You had to talk to the police!" he shoots back, pulling his face away roughly.

"Only because I was the one who found her! Of course that looks suspicious, of course they'd question me about it. They took statements from other people that we'd been caught in altercations. I don't blame anyone for thinking it was me. But it wasn't. It was an accident. And so was Emma. Simon, I swear to you. I swear on my life I didn't do those things."

He stares at her, assessing the way she doesn't blink, doesn't show the slightest chance of changing her story under his hard gaze. He wonders if its a possibility that she's gotten so good at telling lies that she's even capable of convincing herself that they're true. She'd never be able to understand that, no matter how many times she says it, he won't ever be able to fully trust her. He doesn't even think he needs to express that, judging by her suddenly looking away from him with another hurt expression. So he says the only thing he can think of.

"What happened?"

Because right now, even a lie is better than nothing. All he wants is some closure, the smallest fraction of mental relief from all these thoughts about Emma. The horror of his own imagination when he pictures what might have happened to her.

"I snuck out to have a smoke. She was already outside at the benches. I thought... I don't know. I felt a little bad about what I'd say. I was just going to apologize, Simon. I was going to try and do the right thing. I just wanted you to like me again." It's a surprise to him when he hears her start crying again. "I must have... really startled her when I called her name. She turned around so fast I- I couldn't do anything. I was too far away. She turned and lost her footing. I... I watched her fall. The sound when her head hit the bench..." She shakes her head hard. "I think- I think I screamed?"

Simon recalls that moment in the visiting room with his father, the shriek they heard. "That was... I heard you."

"I went over to her but I didn't... there was so much blood, I didn't know what to do! I pulled her away from the bench... they said I shouldn't have pulled her away from the bench. I didn't- I didn't know... I didn't want her to die, Simon."

Lucy hangs her head and buries her face in her hands, her body shaking with the force at which she's crying. Simon's never seen her look so small, so broken. He didn't think he could still find it in him to care about her like he does in that moment, but the next thing he knows he's placing his hand on her back and pulling her to his chest. He holds her tight against him and battles down his own feelings, because he's not sure he'd find it in him to stop if he got himself worked up again, too.

So he sits with her like that until her hard sobs become small hiccups and she finally pulls her hands away. Her voice is still strained when she tells him, "I don't blame you for wanting to hurt me. I wanted you to. I almost wish you had. I'm so, so sorry."

He wants to believe her, really. Tries to tell himself that this apology should be enough. After all, no one's ever apologized to him before, for anything. It's true that he feels bad about her breaking down, he lets himself feel something over her story and everything else, but it falls short with that one word. It's the first time he's had someone say it, and the first time he's realized it doesn't mean very much. Sorries don't make everything better.

There's still the reality of everything that's happened, and knowing that it's never going to be like it was. And there's Lucy looking at him, expecting something he can't ever give her.

"I guess that's okay," she tells him, moving away. "I wouldn't forgive me, either."

He inhales deeply and lets it out slow, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and staring at the floor as he decides what to do next. "A lot of stuff has happened," he says slowly. "I'm not... okay now, but I might be... someday. And tomorrow I'm going home."

"Yeah," she deadpans. "And I'll be right here."

"I can't control that. This isn't... me leaving you."

"Yes, it is. But," she sighs, "what can I do about it? This it, Simon. Endgame."

"Checkmate."

"Checkmate," she repeats.

...

Before the sun comes up, Simon sneaks back to his room for the last time. With the relief at not being caught, he drags feet to his bed and crawls into it, lying his face down in the pillow. And there, he lets go again. He replays his goodbye with Lucy, how tightly she'd clung to him, and how desperate she'd sounded when she said she'd missed him.

How he'd hardly said anything in return.

His shirt is still wet from her teary confession and he can still feel her body pressed into his and how well she fit against him. _It could have all been so different_, he thinks. It could have been, but it wasn't. He'd come to this place and it had nearly consumed him, he'd almost made a monster of himself. He'd gone to the edge and half fallen over and clawed himself out of it. Things between he and Lucy weren't different, but _he _was.

In a few short hours, someone would be coming to get him and he'd be going back to the life he had before all this. One he never realized just how much he took for granted. It was a lonely one, but if that was his only complaint... it would be enough. He could go back to the fairly uncomplicated parts of it and let go of all the rest.

That's enough, he thinks. For now, that's enough.

...

"That's it. That's the last of it."

Simon watches as the nurse places the phone in his extended hand and he smiles, his first genuine smile in days. He quickly turns it over in his hands, then looks from her to Doctor Lewis. She smiles back at him.

"Put it to good use," she says. "Take lots of pictures, make videos. New memories, okay?"

He nods, licks his lips and tells her, "Thank you."

She pushes her glasses up her nose, and he's reminded that it's the last time he'll ever see her do it. "I would hug you, but it goes against policy, so I'm going to leave you with this, Simon. You're a good person, with a good heart. You're going to be fine."

"Community services starts in a few weeks here," his father says behind them. "Plenty of opportunity to make new friends."

It's surprising to him that he hadn't even thought of that until now. Of course, his first instinct is to start to disagree, but he's quick to stop himself. There would be plenty of time in the future to talk about his thoughts on community services. That one thing he still has yet to face.

"Sure," Doctor Lewis agrees. "Permitted it's the right kind of friends, yes? Ones beneficial for your progress and well- being."

He nods.

"Try to stay out of trouble," she says, giving him a wink.

"Goodbye, Doctor Lewis," he replies, turning around and walking back to where his family stands. Rebecca's there holding out his suitcase for him and he takes it with a smile.

"Stargate when we get home?" she asks.

"I would like that very much," he answers, turning with her as they start to make their way down the hall, with their parents following close behind. They're only a short distance away when he hears Doctor Lewis say her final goodbye, and there's the briefest twinge of bitter-sweetness before his parents start talking about what's for dinner tonight and he's back on track with thoughts of his arrival back home.

With the final checkout at the front desk, and a month's prescription for his medicine already pre-written as the only thing other than memories he would take with him from the unit, they finally make their way outside and to the car. One last look, he tells himself, turning around. But not the final memory, he knows, as his eyes go to the window of the rec room and he sees them standing there. It's all in his mind, he tells himself, those ghosts of Jack and Sara and Emma looking back at him. They're not there now. They never will be. But they're there in his head, and that's one place they'll never leave.

Then suddenly his father is taking his suitcase from him, and he's turning away from it all. Climbing in the backseat next to Rebecca, his mum starts telling them about the animal kingdom documentary she watched the other night and this is okay, he thinks.

Amidst all the other things he would have to let himself come to terms with when he finally gets home, all the things he still had to face, for this one moment... it's okay.

Before they drive away though, out the corner of his eye, Simon sees her on the other side of the window. The one person who's not gone, who's not a figment of his imagination, and who he's leaving behind forever. Ever so slowly, Lucy raises her hand and settles it on the glass. Simon closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them and waves.

Her haunting stare is the last thing he sees as they start to pull away.

...

**one chapter to go! **


End file.
